


Broken

by Kietzemaze



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: F/M, Feelings, Own Character, Sherlock's Past, a bit of violence but not too much, explicit content but not too much, heartbroken, helpful Molly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-26
Updated: 2021-02-05
Packaged: 2021-03-09 23:36:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 20
Words: 49,645
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27724261
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kietzemaze/pseuds/Kietzemaze
Summary: Molly knew right from the start that a relationship with Sherlock wouldn't be perfect. That she would have to make compromises. But she never expected so much pain and so many difficulties to deal with...
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/Molly Hooper
Comments: 121
Kudos: 125





	1. Chapter 1

Baker Street. A rattle. Or a ball? The soft and blue one that rang when someone threw it. Happy squeaking. Rosie. The excited and encouraging babble of Mrs Hudson, speaking in such a high pitched voice as she used to do with small children. Sherlock, talking about a case. John, who listened carefully and interjected occasionally. A background noise that was drowned out by Molly's thunderous thoughts like a radio show that one turned on but didn't listen to because there was something better to do. Standing in front of her: diced cheese, mini tomatoes, pickles, boiled eggs. A serving platter. Ah, right. Appetizers. She was about to offer appetizers at least.

Ever since she was with Sherlock, she always had something in stock. Something to serve their guests. And guests came more frequently than clients at the moment. Most of the time it was John with Rosie - and where Rosie was, Mrs. Hudson could not be far either. It all looked so normal. Almost idyllic. She should have been happy, right? 

Tired, she hit the boiled eggs onto the tabletop to break the shell. The thought that her heart looked exactly the same - broken, covered with a net of cracks - made her smile cynically. And feel guilty. She couldn't help it and yet a soft voice in the back of her head reminded her that it was okay. That she had every right to be unhappy. That feelings never lie.

A hand reached for a pickle. It wasn't hers and it wasn't Sherlock's. 

"Is everything okay, Molly?" John asked, who bit off a piece, examining her face. _It should be Sherlock who asks me that. Not John_. He's usually so good at deducing. Why didn't he see what she was struggling with? A resigned sigh to the inside, a brave smile to the outside. And a worried look around. Mrs Hudson and Rosie on the living room carpet, no sign of Sherlock anywhere. Probably toilet. Or the case - who knew. "Yes, John. I'm fine," she said and turned back to the eggs. She wasn't good at lying. Never had been. But she knew that John was sensitive enough to know when to back off. When he had to give her some space.

"I lived under the same roof with him for seven years. I know how challenging he can be, Molly. If you need someone to talk to..." he said in a low voice so that nobody could hear him. That little spark of empathy, that tiny bit of interpersonal warmth was enough to make a lump form in her throat and her eyes water. Quickly, she bit her cheek until the physical pain distracted her from the emotional one. Until she could risk half a second to look into his eyes and nod gratefully without him recognizing the pain inside her. John smiled encouragingly, then reached for a piece of cheese and went back to his daughter. Molly heard the bathroom door slam shut.

Ah. Obviously the toilet. It wouldn't have been the first time Sherlock just disappeared...

Had she really been too naive? Could she have known in advance that it wouldn't work? She remembered her doubts very well. Back then. He had kissed her in a moment of vulnerability. Culverton Smith - the case that nearly killed him and at the same time the case that regained John's friendship. She never thought that a body so poisoned as Sherlock's was would ever recover. She had given him three weeks back then. Thought she'd said goodbye to him for good this time. But he had proven otherwise. With her help, with John's help, even with Mycroft's help.

She had been with him every day and every night. And he hated it. He couldn't stand her seeing him like that. So broke. So sick. So weak. He had broken out in sweat. His stomach had rebelled - his intestines too. He had been trembling, constantly trembling. Even in his sleep he had never really come to rest. And Molly always stayed at his side, enduring and monitoring his condition as much as she could. She took his pulse, his blood, even his urine. It had been the most intimate moments they had ever shared, even if it had been repugnant to him.

She'd known exactly when to get him something to eat (and to force him to gulp it down) and when it was pointless. Or which tea he tolerated best. She'd noticed that he was only too harsh and insulting when he was miserable. When he was close to beg for another fix. When he wanted to take just everything. Cocaine, heroin, LSD or even cigarettes. Anything to calm him down. To make him feel better. It wouldn't have made any difference.

Mycroft had visited him regularly or asked Molly about his current state. He had her email him all the lab reports and organized a large drugs bust that made sure Sherlock's apartment was clean. Really clean. They had even moved cupboards and looked for loose floorboards. Every square inch had been checked and all chemicals and laboratory instruments had been eliminated with which he could have made himself a lethal mixture. 

And John was always filling in when Molly couldn't make it. Or when Sherlock's ranting became too much for her. Only God knew what they were talking about. Whether they had spoken at all. Or whether they had simply build on where everything had been fine, because no word of the world would have been enough to ease the pain and to process the events.

It had taken so endlessly long for Sherlock's condition to finally get better and stable again. Until he could sit up in bed again, asking for the daily newspaper. It had been the first evening Molly had eaten something with him and not just shoved a piece of white bread between his chapped lips. It had also been the first night he didn't act like a colossal asshole and hide behind his arrogance to appear stronger than he actually was. The first night he thanked her. For her care. For her support. For her efforts.

She had been leaning against his shoulder and just smiled without thinking about it. Had breathed a sigh of relief knowing that he was over the worst and had quickly sent a silent Thanks to heaven. Too many times in the last decade had she thought she'd never see Sherlock again. Back when he jumped off Barts and went into hiding. When Mary had shot a bullet in his torso. After he shot Magnussen and was sent on a presumably deadly mission by his brother. And finally, after all the drugs with the Culverton Smith case. Itwas more than a human heart could bear and with each time the concern had increased. That it could become true some time.

Sherlock's hand had reached for hers, enclosing it. Not a word had passed his lips, his gesture and the sadness in his eyes had told her everything she needed to know. To feel his warm and vividly pulsating hand on her skin had been so much different and more beautiful than any other touch before. It had been a deliberate act. He did it because he wanted to. Not because she had to insert a needle or to make sure that his heart was still beating.

She had let her thumb run over his skin as if she was touching him for the first time. Sherlock had made her heart skip a beat when he let it happen. Insecurely, she had looked into his eyes. Eyes that suddenly came closer because he bent down to kiss her. A kiss so shy, hardly noticeable and yet so honest. And Molly had completely stopped thinking and was absolutely lost in the moment. The fears only overwhelmed her when she came back to her apartment. Why was he doing this? Was it just a clumsy attempt to show her his gratitude? Or was he suddenly feeling things that he had never allowed himself to feel before? People who had barely escaped death often reconsider their desicions. And Sherlock had changed, especially after Mary's passing. Or was it perhaps just some weird experiment whose meaning she wouldn't understand?

These were questions she had never dared to ask. But it happened again. He had never told her he loved her. There was no official day on which they announced their relationship - if it was one at all. They had simply met more regularly, kissed shyly and sometimes even went out for a walk holding hands. Had slept next to each other and had breakfast together. Little by little, a few items from her apartment had moved into Sherlock's. Her toothbrush, for example. And two of her books. The joy of closeness, which she was finally able to enjoy after so many years of her secret love, often gave way to anxiety about the future. If this was to go wrong, there wouldn't even be a friendship left to cling to. The hope that she would ever belong to him would be shattered. If this was just a wicked game, there was nothing left for her, nothing at all.

Molly was of course well aware that a relationship with Sherlock would never be normal. That he wouldn't be a romantic who surprised her with flowers, cooked for her and cuddled all evening. She knew that he would continue to live in Baker Street – a shelter for those who were seeking help. That she would not see him for several days when he was working on a case. She had simply become too old for rose-colored glasses but she hadn't thought that they would stick with shy kissing and holding hands only. That he would still run on low flame emotionally even if he willingly chose to be with her. Sherlock never did anything halfway. And yet he just wouldn't let her get close. 

_You've always counted and I've always trusted you._

These words had been echoing through her head for half an eternity, and as their relationship developed, Molly gradually dared to question its truthfulness. She was starving, thirsting for his closeness, his affection, his commitment. Wanted to lie in his arms, to draw him closer, to bury her hands in his curls. And she suffered because she wasn’t allowed to. Because he apparently didn’t share her needs. She felt rejected – both emotionally and physically. And every time she tried to talk to him about it, he became distant - even annoyed - until she felt that she was only making things worse by putting pressure on him. They were running in circles without an exit and Molly didn’t know what to do. She just knew she wouldn’t be able to take it any longer. That the gloomy thoughts threatened to crush her.

A pull on her jeans made her come back to the here and now. The eggs were shelled and halved, and were laying on the platter as well as the tomato-cheese-skewers and the pickled cucumbers. Molly had no idea how they got there. But this was not the first time she had done something without noticing it. She wiped her hands on a kitchen towel and got her godchild on her arm. 

"My little girl is hungry, isn't she?", Molly asked and gave the eagerly nodding girl a warm smile. Rosie bent down to the skewers over-zealously, but was stopped by a hand that pulled the platter to the side. Rosie started crying immediately. Sherlock pressed a pickle into her hand to soothe her. 

"You'll need some help with the skewers, little Watson," he said, then put his hand on Molly's back and breathed a quick kiss on her forehead. "Thank you," he said quietly and took the appetizers into the living room.

Idyllic. Way too idyllic.


	2. Chapter 2

When Molly woke up the next morning, she turned tiredly over to Sherlock's bedside with her eyes still shut but the only thing she found was a cold sheet. Far too much space in a bed that was way too big for her alone. No regular breaths that reached her ear. No curls that tickled her skin. No arm wrapped around her waist. Just his scent on the pillow she could cling to.

She sighed. Another morning without closeness, without warmth, without intimacy. At least, the first rays of sunshine were falling through the open window. At least, she could hear birds chirping through the noise of the big city. Still – it didn’t make her discontent fade. 

Molly's eyes caught sight of the mirror next to Sherlock's wardrobe. The mirror in front of which he always got dressed so carefully, scanning himself from all possible angles like a woman. In the last few months, however, he started using the mirror in his bathroom to not wake Molly. Of course, she wouldn’t have minded at all starting the morning with a look at his naked chest before he put his shirt on. Or with kiss on her neck that caused goosebumps all over her skin. It wasn’t enough for her to just lay by his side all night. Probably for him. But not for her.

Lethargically, she swung her legs out of bed and went over to the closet. Sherlock had been so kind to empty a shelf for her clothes to put. She got herself fresh underwear and a new shirt. Her jeans from yesterday was still good enough to put it on once again. Molly would have loved to wear a leisure suit - especially on weekends - but she didn't dare to do so with Sherlock walking around in his suit like a CEO. Or a lawyer. He was even wearng those exorbitantly pricy and accurately ironed shirts under his dressing gown. Always ready to go on a manhunt from one second to the other.

She got out of her top and the white knickers, and looked into the mirror. Her breasts might be too small and her hips a little too wide but she knew that her body was nothing to be ashamed of. No man before Sherlock had had a problem touching her, tasting her, taking her. Never before had she had to worry about whether she was sexy or not. It was one of those things that worked very well without her having to do anything in particular. Without her having to replace the white cotton knickers with a black lace panty. Maybe she should try some sexy underwear? Lingerie even? It wouldn’t do any harm, would it? 

The cool morning breeze that came in through the open window made Molly get dressed quickly before heading to the bathroom for her morning wash. When she was done, she cautiously entered the living room. Lost in thoughts, Sherlock was staring at a city map which was pinned to the wall - carefully decorated with photos and notes of all kinds. He didn't seem to notice her. Molly saved herself a good morning. She knew he wouldn't respond anyway. He was like in another world, immersed in the depths of his brilliant mind, scrolling through a huge database. She headed for John's old chair, which she had seized over time. On the side table next to it was a plate with two slices of bread, only slightly toasted. On one a slice of cheese, on the other the same physalis jam that John loved as much as she did and that Sherlock found so revolting. A small teapot and a cup.

Molly smiled. 

It wasn't that he didn't care about her at all. He liked to make breakfast for her, he sometimes even got her a coffee when he came to Barts. Or the latest issue of a medical journal when he decided that there was something of interest in it this time. And after a hard day at work, he often ran her a bath without her asking him to. 

And without him joining her.

Molly bit into her toast and watched the detective. The sight of him, so strongly focused on a case, was almost hypnotic. She could have looked at him for hours, listening to his breaths, watching the creases of his suit. The small back slit of his jacket gaped slightly apart since he held his arms crossed in front of his chest. His trousers ended exactly three inches above the heel of his leather shoes and his dark curls were just about to touch the collar of his pale blue shirt he had chosen for today. He left nothing to chance, not even his outfit. Molly was sure that his clothes - as perfect as they fit - were tailor-made and wickedly expensive. But she had never asked him about it.

She poured herself tea which still seemed to be warm but hit her plate unintentionally when shewanted to put the pot back again. 

_… Clumsy me!..._

Sherlock turned around abruptly. 

"Oops. Sorry," she murmured and smiled embarrassed. 

"Molly," Sherlock said in surprise because he hadn't noticed her before. He came over to her, sat down on the armrest, and breathed a kiss on her cheek. She would have loved to inhale the scent emanating from the curve of his neck by taking an embarrassingly loud and deep breath. 

"Good morning," he said with his vibrant baritone. 

"Good morning. I didn't intend to disturb you," she replied. "Thanks for breakfast. " 

Sherlock gave her a quick nod. „Did you sleep well?" 

"Yes, very well. But waking up could have been nicer…", she said, almost regretting her remark. 

_Not now, Molly._

She quickly bit into her toast once again before she offered it to Sherlock as if she wanted to shut them both up before they could say anything stupid. He looked at her a little irritated but eventually had a bite. A crumb was stuck to the corner of his mouth while he was chewing. 

_God, those lips. That crumb._

Was it forbidden to imagine her kissing it away? He turned his head back towards the wall, his brows narrowed as he was about to immerse himself in his thoughts again. Molly placed her hand on his thigh in a silent request to come back to her. She enjoyed his presence, even if he was just sitting on the armrest. At least, he was there, right next to her. He looked at her again but only to lay his hand on hers, taking it to his lips to leave another kiss and to get up again.

"Sherlock…", Molly murmured. 

"Huh?" 

"Could you please… Just for a minute... ", she began, hating the desperation in her voice. She only wanted to… Everything and nothing, really. 

"Molly, a thought just came to my mind. I… ", he said, looking to the wall with his fingertips tipping against his chin. There was a glow in his eyes like that of a child who had just discovered something new. 

"I wish I could have woken up next to you", it burst out of Molly. 

_…Well done, my Dear. Just a tiny little bit more of your neediness and men will run after you in droves…_

She closed her eyes for a brief moment and leaned back in resignation. Sherlock turned his head again and looked at her, uncomprehending. 

"Not again, Molly," he said and almost sounded annoyed. "You see that?" he asked, pointing to the lovingly decorated city map. 

"Something big is going on here. I can't waste my time with... snuggling." 

_ … Wow. That was… Wow.  _

"As if you'd ever do that...", Molly replied weakly. She was disappointed, so damn disappointed. And this conversation went just as bad as all the conversations before. 

"Jesus, Molly. Pull yourself together and get yourself… under control," he said. 

_Great. Why don't you just rip my heart out of my chest instead of breaking it bit by bit?_

_… My Dear, I warned you not to bring this up now, didn’t I?..._

_For God’s sakes, shut up!_

_… Oh, anger. Anger is good. At least better than tears…_

Molly was thunderstruck. His statement was more than just rejection. It was presumptuous. Didn't it imply that he was above such trivial desires, above her even? That he had learned to set the right priorities contrary to her? Did he just say that her needs were worth less? That he didn't take her seriously? 

She was tired of neglecting her own desires. She was tired of competing with all the crimes. She was tired of feeling guilty for giving her own needs the same value as national security. She was numb and paralyzed. Unable to reply. Unable to scream. Unable to cry. It was as if the pain of his words had taken her breath away.

She just stared at him. And he stared back with his blue-green eyes. Apparently, he noticed what he had just said, yet he failed to apologize. To admit that he had made a mistake. The silence in the room was unbearable. Both of them jumped when his mobile phone suddenly rang, the shrill sound echoing through the room. Sherlock took it out of his trouser pocket. 

„Lestrade," he said as he picked up and Molly heard the DI's voice babbling excitedly without her being able to catch anything. Not that she would be interested right now. 

"I'll be there in a minute," Sherlock said and hung up. He then looked sadly into Molly's face and swallowed hard.

"I… I have to go," he announced and headed to the door, relieved to be able to escape the situation. 

"Maybe I should go, too. Leave, I mean...", Molly said through a blur of tears. Sherlock stopped for a brief moment but he didn't turn around to calm the waves again. Instead, he rushed out of the door, leaving Molly behind. 

Alone, as usual. 

She buried her face in her hands. Did this really happen? Within a few minutes?

Oh, she would pull herself together indeed - for the moment. She would not let herself be drowned by her emotions right now. Not in his apartment. She would function and go from room to room to collect the few items that had found their way into his apartment. She would pack her bag and return to her apartment with her head held high. 

And then she would have a complete break down.


	3. Chapter 3

Disappointment. Disappointment was all he was good at. He had disappointed John when he made him feel like the only person in the world who didn't know about his faked death. He had disappointed his brother when Project Bond Air was ruined just because he had let Irene Adler fool him so easily. He had disappointed himself when he knew no better way out than to shoot Magnussen like a desperate thief from the streets. And he had disappointed all the others when, in an act of arrogance, he had made Mary jump in the way of a bullet that was meant for him.

But the one who had suffered and was still suffering the most from all his shortcomings was Molly. 

His Molly. 

The only woman who was able to love him the way he was. Not only had he disappointed her but had also kept her away from him and rejected her over and over again. From the first day they met. But no matter what he did, she always stayed with him - emotionally. Even when he acted like a total arsehole, even when he consumed too many drugs, even when he was responsible for too many deaths - she had always been a constant in his life. A constant he had finally allowed to be a part of him after so many years of resistance - only to disappoint her further. To prove every day anew that he was not worth it. That he would never satisfy her needs al though he wanted it so much. 

He liked the way her hair flowed over her shoulders every time she removed her scrunchie. He liked the white cotton knickers that fit so snugly against her bottom when she went to sleep. He enjoyed her closeness, which always soothed his turbulent thoughts a little. He needed someone like her who was able to look through his facade without having to tear it down. He needed her acceptance, her care, her affection. And wanted nothing more than to return everything she had been giving him so easily and voluntarily. But he couldn't since  she was also the only woman who had the power to destroy his whole world with a blink of an eye. Who was able to pull the rug out from under his feet when this went wrong. 

Emotions were not just an error of human nature. They scared him.

He should never have gotten involved with her. Should never have kissed her. They were playing with fire. A game whose rules he didn't understand and probably never will . With every day they spent together, with every kiss, with every touch they came a little closer and each time he also became a little more aware of what he would lose if he engaged with her entirely. Emotionally and physically. 

And now it all had gone wrong. He had messed it up.

_... Maybe I should go, too. Leave, I mean..._

The sight of her deeply sad eyes was burned into his mind along with those words he will never forget. Words that he deserved more than anything else. Words he couldn't bear. Words worse than anything that had happened in Serbia. 

Serbia.

He had been unable to respond. It had hit him like a blow on the kidneys that was so painful that his breath was taken away. Too painful to be able to scream. He had acted like a coward. He'd fled from the situation instead of facing it because he didn’t know how to fix what he had destroyed within seconds. Because he didn’t know what people usually did to calm t he waves again. But no human being on this planet would have kept a person so close and important like Molly was to him at  distance by intentionally hurting her anyway. 

He was so fucked up.

So many doubts, so much self-hate, so much of his past. Dr. Evans would be delighted the next time he consulted her... 

It was as if all life had vanished from his apartment when he returned to Baker Street and found that Molly had indeed taken all her belongings with her. The two books that had been lying on his bedside table and the few pieces of clothing that had always looked so out of place in his wardrobe. Even her toothbrush was gone.

Speechless, he had sunken into his armchair until the silence threatened to crush him. Along with all the reproaches in his head. The smiley face on his wall seemed to mock him, laugh at him, ridicule him. Everything had been so surreal. 

She was gone and with her the only real acceptance of his person. Alone was what he had. Alone was what protected him. Together with his façade of arrogance and mere intelligence.  The only things left now.

But this time Sherlock couldn't tell if it was enough to keep him going...

***

There was always something calming about death. It was quiet, peaceful, final. It made the very own problems suddenly become so small. Sometimes, death even seemed to be like a little happy ending itself since it was also a way out of all the challenges and difficulties one has to deal with. Because every fight and every conflict had an end. Only the way to get there was different for everyone.

Natural death due to advanced age was surprisingly rare. Mostly it was diseases that were tormenting the patient for quite some time until it finally released him. Or her. Or it was crime and violence of some sort. Car accidents, murders of all kinds, unfortunate falls, sequelae of war injuries - just to name a few. What was more difficult for Molly to estimate was the number of psychologically related deaths. The husband, for example, who lost his will to live after his wife had died. A young woman starving herself to death due to mental disorders. Depressives who comitted suicide to escape their anguish. 

But the result was always the same: silence.

Every now and again, Molly needed her work to distract herself or to remember that the pain she was feeling was just a sign of her vitality. That she still had time until she would surrender to the eternal and peaceful rest. There was always a whole lifetime behind each of the deceased. Years of experiences, of emotions, of ups and downs. Sometimes - during autopsy - she found herself wondering how the person on the dissecting table had spent his life. What he had been doing for a living. What had moved him. Whether he had died among his family or alone.

But today she had no energy for it. Haven't had for days, actually. As if controlled by afar, she was carrying out her tasks completely dispassionately and without any vigor. She functioned - there was no other word to describe it. The day passed by without her even noticing it and thank goodness no colleague dared to ask about her state. Normally she would have been upset about that carelessness and lack of empathy but in this case she was glad that people were always closest to themselves. 

She already cursed the day when she would meet Sherlock again in the lab and at the same time she wished for nothing more than that to happen. She wanted to get on with him just as well as she had done for almost a decade, silently working next to each other at the microscopes, secretly looking at him and smelling his scent. Yet she knew that this ship had probably sailed. That it would be weird.

She didn't know what to do. She didn't even know how to get rid of these tormenting and meanwhile constantly repetitive and therefore annoying thoughts. How to find her way back to a restful sleep. 

"Dr. Hooper? Do you hear me?", a male voice right next to her suddenly asked. Apparently, her boss was standing at her dissecting table for quite some time, trying to talk to her. 

"Oh. I'm so sorry", Molly said sheepishly, hoping he would assume she had only been entirely focussed on her work.

"Would you please come to my office when you're done here?", he asked and of course she nodded. He was her supervisor, what else could she have said or done? The unpleasant feeling in her stomach kept trying to convince her that she must have done something wrong in the last few days, which Dr. Richardson would now bring up. She failed to remember making any sort of mistake but she was not on her best anyway and therefore couldn't rely on her judgment. 

She put the cold body of Mr. Leeman, who had died far too soon, back into the cooling chamber and cleaned herself thoroughly before she scurried down the long corridors of the hospital. After taking a deep breath, she knocked on the door to Dr. Richardson's office and entered.

"Ah, Dr. Hooper! There you are!", he said over the rim of his glasses, closing the file he had been flipping through before. His hair had receded in the recent years and was now bald at the temples. The wrinkles on his face had become a little deeper since his promotion to a senior physician but he was still an attractive man. And fair. Even now he smiled warmly as he pointed to the chair in front of his large desk and Molly hesitantly took a seat. He seemed to be neither angry nor upset, which calmed her tense nerves a bit but also confused her a little. He had never asked her to come to his office before. 

"Are you alright? You look a little... exhausted," he said and examined her face attentively.

"Yes. Yes, I'm fine. I just slept badly last night," she replied, forcing herself to smile bravely. She really liked Mr. Richardson but he was probably not the right person to talk about her problems. Nervously, she was fumbling with her fingers. 

"I see," he said politely without digging deeper. "Dr. Hooper, you are by far the most thorough and competent pathologist in our hospital," he finally began and Molly's eyes widened in surprise. She had not expected such an opening. Especially not in her current unmotivated state. 

"I would like to send you to Scotland for a congress. To Edinburgh to be exact." 

Ok, now she was really taken aback. Was he serious?

"To a congress? I-I... don't know what to say. Thank you. When is it?", she asked.

"The week after next. It was fully booked but I got a call today that some of the attendants had cancelled," he explained. The week after next, then. As much as she longed to get her life back under control, she was tempted by the offer to simply escape her ordinary life. Perhaps it even came in useful \- a change of scenery was rarely a mistake. 

"Here's a flyer," he said, handing her a piece of paper. "The congress will last five days. Please let me know as soon as possible if you are participating so that we can organize a flight and accommodation for you in time."

"I'm participating," Molly heard herself say without thinking about it. She didn't have any other obligations, did she? Except for the obligation to do something good for herself and feel better again. This offer was almost like a sign of fate to eventually get out of her depression. 

"Are you sure?", Dr. Richardson asked, who had never seen Molly make a decision so quickly.

"Yes. And would it be possible for me to take a few days off afterwards? In Edinburgh, I mean? Once I'm there..." 

_ ...Sweetheart, don't get carried away... _

_ Shut up! Let me do something rash for once! _

"Frankly, I did not expect this euphoria," Dr. Richardson said but grinned amused. "I think that can be arranged. We are not short on staff at the moment. But don't expect me to pay for the extra nights at the hotel."


	4. Chapter 4

As it turned out, Molly had an obligation she had completely forgotten about in the heat of the moment: Rosie. On John’s long practice days, she always picked the little girl up from childcare when the shifts at Barts allowed her to. Mrs. Hudson, however, was able to take on this task if neccessary while Molly was attending the conference. Or Rosie’s godfather... Nothing that couldn't be arranged but she had to involve John in her plans first.

Usually, Molly was never short of ideas of how to keep Rosie busy when she took care of her but not today. She was far too tired for it. The wine, which she allowed herself in the evenings to calm her emotions a little, only helped her to to fall asleep but unfortunately not to sleep through the night. At some time, she was always lying awake for a few hours, crying into her tissues, typing messages to the love of her life without ever sending them and desperately staring to the ceiling until exhaustion overtook her again. She had left Sherlock because she thought she could no longer stand such a distant and cold relationship but had completely underestimated what she was going through now. Her emotions fluctuated between remorse, self-pity, lovesickness, and desperate hope.

And she didn't feel human anymore.

The fact that Sherlock hadn't contacted her in the last few days was the worst since it made her feel completely worthless. She'd meant nothing to him, obviously. She had secretly hoped that he would just turn up at her door to give her a hug. Or to talk. To sort it out. But he hadn't even called to ask for her assistance at Barts. No attempt to take a step towards her whatsoever. And with each day that passed her hope for an happy endling was shattered again.

"Careful, Rosie. There's a road here," she said warningly, as the little girl let go of the buggy and tried to walk on her own.

"Daddy!", she called and pointed to John's house across the street and to the car in the driveway.

"Yeah, your daddy's waiting for you, see?" Molly took the girl by the hand and helped her to cross the street safely. With clumsy steps, Rosie hurried to the door and patted against it with her small hands. John, who'd expected them already, opened and took his daughter into his arms.

"Hello, little Watson! I'm happy to see you too", he said and kissed her on the cheek.

"Hello, Molly, thank you so much for...", he continued but stopped when he looked into her face. "Molly, for God's sakes. What happened?", he asked with concern in his voice. She knew she must look terrible. Tired, worn out, weak. But she had hoped that her make-up would cover the worst.

"I... Uhm...", she began, not knowing what to say or if she even wanted to. She didn't feel like talking at all - especially not here in the public.

"It's okay, John," she said, turning away from him quickly. Home, that's where she wanted to be. Close to her box of tissues.

"Stop, Molly! You're not going anywhere. I knew that you weren't ok the other day. I knew that something's wrong. Now please come in and stay for dinner. You can tell me what's going on afterwards. I insist", he said. He didn't sound like a father trying to stand up to his rebellious teenage girl. He sounded more like the former soldier who was used to giving orders. Molly was so surprised that she stood on his doorstep completely frozen for a brief moment. She had never experienced this assertiveness with him before but she felt that his intention was a good one. That he only wanted to be there for her.

She had never been a person who liked to have a good cry on somebody's shoulder. She didn't want to burden others with her problems and preferred to sort those things out with herself, licking the wounds alone and in silence. Only when John stepped aside and gave her a nod to come in did Molly enter hesitantly.

"I've been cooking," John said, hurrying towards the kitchen with Rosie on his arm. Only now did Molly notice the tea towel that was thrown over his shoulder and the smell of tomatoes and basil permeating the rooms.

She wasn't hungry but she ate a small plate of spaghetti bolognese after setting the table to show a spark of decency. She couldn't deny that it tasted incredibly delicious despite her lack of appetite. He was really a chef manque! Rosie was eating so greedily that she made a mess not just of herself but also of the surroundings. Her bib couldn't do anything about it. Molly therefore bathed the little girl after dinner and made her ready for bed while John was cleaning the kitchen.

She happened to notice that the Watson's company did her good. That it distracted her and at the same time helped her make friends with the idea to eventually talk about her sorrows. It would have been weird to just sit down on John's couch right after arriving and talk about her problems as if he were her psychologist. It was so... intimate.

Before John put his daughter to bed, he offered Molly a glass of red wine by putting it on the coffee table. She smiled bitterly. The wine had become a little bit too much by now and with every sip she took Molly felt more pathetic. Nevertheless she sipped at the glass and leaned back with relief.

People say that the pain fades a little every day, don't they? Molly very much doubted it. She still felt too miserable to believe it... 

_...It all happened quite fast, didn't it, my Dear?..._

_Fast? He was just standing by, watching me go down for months! Breaking me bit by bit..._

_... Sure. But maybe you could have handled it differently than packing your bag and hurrying out..._

_Good Lord, be quiet! This is Sherlock we're talking about!_

_... Well, first of all, you're talking to yourself..._

Molly pinched her hand. These arguments in her head had to stop! Along with the accusations she was making every three seconds and all the qualms that she couldn't get rid of on her own anyway.

Hastily, she took another sip of her wine, hoping that it would numb her soon. The glass was well filled, thank God. Or thank John. 

When she heard steps on the stairs, she put the glass back on the table and tried to look a little less desperate.

"Is she asleep yet?" she asked, although she already knew the answer. She had put Rosie to bed several times herself.

"No, it usually takes a while. But she's listening to her music box right now and has already snuggled up to her teddy," John explained and settled down next to her on the sofa. Molly nodded silently. She was tense. She didn't want to. The melody of Rosie's music box could be heard all the way into the living room but when it stopped, the silence was ringing in her ears.

"So Molly, what happened?", John finally asked and leaned against the back of his sofa, exhausted. The long working day was clearly visible and had left behind tired eyes and deeper wrinkles around the corners of his mouth. Nevertheless, he gave Molly his fullest attention. His upper body was turned towards her, the collar of his shirt slightly opened for a bit more comfort. He smiled encouragingly and waited patiently for her to start talking.

"I-I...", she stammered just as she had done at his front door a few hours ago. "I think I've split up with Sherlock," she said quickly and immediately bit her tongue to hold back the tears. Her lips were trembling uncontrollably. She had known John for so many years and she truly trusted him but she felt much more uncomfortable for showing her emotions than she had expected.

John looked at her as if she had just announced the landing on Mars. His eyes were widened by surprise, his eyebrows raised in bewilderment. "You did what?"

Molly couldn't blame him for his reaction. For years, she had been running after this arrogant smartarse and everybody knew it. No one would ever believe that she - of all people - was the one who had given up this relationship after such a long fight.

She was hiding her face in her hands as if she could push her tears back to where they had come from. John next to her got up but came back again just a few seconds later.

"Here you are," he said softly, handing her a box of tissues when he sat down at her side again.

„What the hell did he do?"

"Nothing. That's exactly the problem“, she said and blew her nose. Why was she always so terribly weak? Irritation was reflected in John's eyes but he waited patiently for her to continue speaking.

"I knew it won't be easy. That I have to back off when he's on a case. That he wouldn't talk to me for days. But he doesn't let me near him at all, John," she finally explained.

"How do you mean?", he simply asked whilst stroking her back with his hand.

"He just doesn't involve me. He's doing what he's doing and I'm privileged to watch at best. You were always a team, you and Sherlock. I'm just an observer. Of course, I don't have any special skills to... help him... or to contribute anything useful. I'm not like you. But I'm not a part of his life either," she said with a tearful voice.

"You are very hard on yourself here, Molly. And I'm fairly sure that you are a very important part of his life. Otherwise, he wouldn't--"

"Oh, really?", she interrupted him more forcefully than intended. "If he cares so much about me, why doesn't he touch me?"

_...Oh. That was very... discreet. Well done, sweetheart!_

Her words were hanging in the air and couldn't be wiped away so easily. Her cheeks blushed, she could feel the heat rising to her face. She shouldn't talk about things like these with John. But now it was out and she couldn't take it back anymore. John cleared his throat in embarrassment and interrupted eye contact. Molly felt more than akward.

"He doesn't... touch you? So, you never..."

"No kiss - at least not a real one. No deep embrace. No cuddling, no fondling, no sex. Nothing, John. Nothing at all", she explained. "And I'm not allowed to touch him either. Every attempt is futile and I don't know why. I can't get close to him. The more I try, the worse it gets. And I can't take it anymore, John. I feel rejected, rebuffed, and at best, endured. I miss the closeness, the warmth, the intimacy. I'm... starved."

John sighed audibly as she interrupted the flow of words to wipe her nose again. Somehow, she felt relieved having said all these things out loud but Molly knew already that she would feel guilty later. It's nothing you should discuss with your partner's – or ex-partner's - best friend.

John pulled her into his arms and held her tight. He did nothing but to hold her. There was nothing he could have said to ease the pain anyway. He was there for her, giving her a space to just be and feel what she was feeling. His warmth and his closeness did her incredibly good and soothed her nerves instantly. After such a long time, she finally felt accepted again. He didn't push her away, he didn't laugh, he didn't even try to justify Sherlock's actions. All he did was taking her seriously and this meant much more to her than she was able to express. Her resistance and restraint faded. She leaned against him and soaked his shirt with her tears without feeling ashamed for it. Not now, not today.

"I suppose you tried to talk to him?", John asked after a while, gently stroking over her upper arm. Molly's body was still shaken by those sobs that didn't seem to stop.

"Yes. He told me to get myself under control", she replied bitterly. John moaned. "What an idiot! That sounds just like Sherlock."

They kept silent for a moment and Molly only listened to his heartbeat. It was beating slowly and evenly and somehow it calmed her down again. She took a deep breath.

"Constant dripping wears the stone, Molly", John suddenly said. „Don't let him tell you you're not desirable. Your needs are normal and right and good, and it is also his job to take care of them. A relationship requires mutual consideration and respect. He can't just do what he wants. But I don't need to tell you this..."

John's words were balm for her soul. She still didn't know how to deal with the situation but at least her self-doubts had been silenced. All she had done was to save herself. To protect her heart. And now, after all the tears, she felt so damn empty. The position in John's arms had become rather inconvenient but she didn't care. She needed the contact, needed the feeling of not being alone in this world.

"Sorry for soaking your shirt“, she said, feeling the dampness of the fabric on her cheek. John gently pulled away from her and looked her in the eyes.

"No problem", he replied and stroked a strand of hair from her face that was sticking to her wet cheek. His touch was just as tender as his smile and Molly swallowed hard.

God, this can't be true!

She laid her hand on his, pressing it a little harder against her cheek, and breathed a kiss on his palm as she would have loved to do with Sherlock. She didn't know what had come over her. Whether she simply wanted to cling to the warm feeling or whether the alcohol was already doing it's job. But John didn't withdraw. He left his hand where it was and scanned Molly's face sympathetically. His thumb wiped away the last tear from the corner of her eye. He smiled warmly, then he pulled her closer and kissed her lips.

Molly was frozen. This went too far. Way too far.

"John... I don't think we should do this," she said but didn't move an inch.

"Nor do I," he replied - only to kiss her again.

Damn it!

Molly had never been attracted to John before. He was an indisputably attractive man but the thought had simply never occured to her. He was her friend, he was Mary's husband, he was little Rosie's father. But his lips just felt way too good to let go.

Molly eventually returned the kiss. Her hands found their way to his neck und pulled him closer whilst too many thoughts were racing through her head. Since when was he attracted to her? How long had he been interested in her?

And then it dawned upon her that he was probably just as starved as she was. That he longed for human warmth and closeness just as she did and that his needs were just as unsatisfied as hers. What was happening here was not an uncontrolled outburst of sexual desire. It was the expression of too many unfulfilled needs and the attempt to feel a little of what both of them missed so much.

It was wrong, and yet it felt so good. She didn't know how, she didn't know when, but Molly suddenly felt the cushions of his sofa at her back and John's body on hers. She felt his hot breath on her skin as their tongues met, heard his pleasant sigh on her ear as her hands found the hem of his shirt. The carousel of her thoughts moved more slowly, her pangs of conscience softened as he let his fingers run over her blouse and to her breast.

In a strange way, she suddenly felt free. There was not need to feel ashamed for being so responsive. She didn't have to supress any soft whimpering. She didn't have to worry about whether and how she was allowed to touch him. It was so uncomplicated, so natural, so human.

_And damn Sherlock, rest assured I'm not going to hold back and control myself now!_


	5. Chapter 5

Inwardly, Sherlock was rubbing his hands in anticipation. This case was not just interesting but terrific, even sensational! The best what he had been working on lately. 

It was short after 6 o'clock in the morning on Saturday when he got out of the cab that had stopped at John's house. He didn‘t care in the least wether the normal working population wanted to catch up some sleep on their days off or not. This couldn't wait. Such a cunning criminal was never asleep - he always wanted to be one step ahead. 

Full of élan and with his coat flapping, he ran towards the house. He knew how to let himself in. He would surprise John, he would infect him with his euphoria. This case was indeed worth to be posted on his ridiculous blog! 

"John? I need your help! This is simply-", he exclaimed effusively as he entered his friend's house but what he saw silenced him immediately. And made him swallow hard. 

Did something just crack? Somewhere inside him? 

John - on the couch instead of his bed. Bare torso, the hips only covered with a light blanket. He stroked over his face sleepily and then blinked at Sherlock in confusion. Behind him the naked arms of a woman - no - _his_ woman, his Molly, his (ex?-) girlfriend - who was looking at him with eyes wide open. 

Thoughts of how he would deal with Molly the next time he saw her had constantly been spinning around in his head. He had been trying to come up with something clever to sort out the mess again, imagining how the first conversation with her would go. He had thought of everything but not of this scenario. 

Fuck.

Abashed, he looked to the ground. He knew he deserved no better. It was a punishment for what he had done and what he had not done. And yet he felt betrayed, disappointed, cheated. The sight in front of him was unbearable. John - his best and only real friend - had made more progress within a few days than he had in the last few months. Should he be angry? Bitter? Mad? 

He had lost. He had not been able to keep the only woman he had ever really cared about. Had been unable to give her what she needed, what she had almost begged for.

The seconds stretched into minutes as he stood there in the middle of John's living room, none of them saying a word. They were just looking at each other - helplessly and embarrassed. And with every second that ticked away, this scenario was only rubbing his own inability in, making him even more aware what a mess he was. He felt the knife twisting in his fresh and open wound. 

"Sherlock, I…", John began, eventually breaking the silence. 

"I think I can do it on my own", he replied, turned on his heel and hurried to the door. His face was stonily, his shoulders toned, his movements resolute. Nothing would have suggested that something had just broken inside him. He pulled his phone out of his pocket and dialed a number. 

"Dr. Evans? I need an appointment. As soon as possible. "

***

“Sherlock, what brings you here? The matter seemed to be rather… urgent”, Dr. Evans said two days later. Two days in which Sherlock had felt like death warmed up. If he hadn’t had to focus on a case, he would have spent the time with his violin and arguments with Mrs. Hudson’s about him not eating anything. Thank God that she hadn’t noticed the latter so far since he was out a lot recently, pretending to be busy.

Sherlock was sitting on the therapist’s sofa with his legs crossed and stared out of the window. 

„Sherlock? I‘ve assumed, we left the phases of silence behind us by now”, Dr. Evans pressed on without sounding reproachful. She was always so… unbearably sympathetic. And so prissy with her big glasses and the bun on the top of her head.

"My… _girlfriend_ … Molly… has left me and is sleeping with my best friend. It's a classic, don't you think? Almost ordinary," he said bluntly, without taking his eyes off the window pane. It was windy outside. Thick clouds covered the sky but it wasn‘t raining yet. 

"Molly? The pathologist you told me about?", the psychologist asked. 

"Yes." 

"You didn't tell me that you are in a relationship with her", Dr. Evans said surprised. Her pen was scratching excitedly over the paper that she had bedded on her thighs. 

"Were. Not are. Is that relevant?" 

Her far too patient look and the slow leaning back was enough to admonish Sherlock for his arrogance.

"Of course, Sherlock. Nothing changes people as much as love", she explained. He rolled his eyes theatricality and sighed annoyed. "Connecting with someone is a decision of great consequence. Our attitude changes, our everyday life changes, we are influenced by the people who surround us - especially by those we let into our lives to share it with - without being able to willingly controll it. And sometimes, we barely notice the impact they have on us.“ 

Sherlock just gave her a half-hearted side glance. 

Mycroft had subtly handed him Dr Evans' card back then. After Mary’s death.

_Curious expression. 'After someone's death'. As if it’ll go away again, like 'after dinner'. The food is gone when one has eaten it. There was nothing left except an empty plate. Until breakfast. And lunch. And dinner again. After meal is before the meal. But a person remained dead in the end. Buried in the ground. Forever._

Sherlock had never told anyone about these appointments but he had no illusions. Mycroft certainly knew of every single one. He wouldn't be surprised if his brother even had the report of their conversations e-mailed to him. 

"Why did she leave you?", Dr. Evans asked when Sherlock retreated into silence once again. 

"Because that is exactly what I didn‘t allow to happen," he replied, resting his elbow on the armrest and his head on his thumb and forefinger. 

"Didn't allow what?"

"Letting her into my life. At least not in her opinion", he explained. After all, that was something he‘d figuered out on his own after a long time of thinking. 

"And do you agree with her?", she asked. He was fairly sure that all those questions would soon give him a headache. Or the penetrating scent of lemongrass that was emanating from every corner of the room. 

"Yes and no," he replied monosyllabically. 

"Sherlock…"

"I let her into my life, yes. We saw each other regularly. I was trying to be attentive. You know, like getting her things. Everything that is socially accepted. Everything that a woman expects. But I never… I couldn't…", he said without saying anything. And once again - as so often during these sessions - he became aware how much of his strength was just pretended. How weak he actually was when he did not even know how to put things like these into words.

"What?", she dug deeper. Of course. He was supposed to talk. To say it out loud. 

"In former times you would have said marriage was never consummated," he replied quietly, avoiding her gaze. The sight of the clouds was easier to bear. Was less… confrontational. Dr. Evans was silent. Apparently, she had to process his words first. 

"Just to be clear, you were emotionally involved with her but not physically?" 

He nodded. 

"This is unusual. Why?" 

Jesus Christ! Shouldn't she be the one who explained the world to him? Or at least his inner life? 

"You know why," he replied, looking into her eyes challengingly.

"I think I do. But I need you to tell me," she demanded. 

"Why?" 

"You know why," she countered, making Sherlock smile involuntarily. 

_Well played, doctor._

Then the smile on his lips died again and his expression became serious. Very serious. 

"Serbia," he finally said. 

"What happened in Serbia, Sherlock?", Dr. Evans asked. She let go of pen and paper and folded her hands in her lap instead. She watched him attentively, he could feel her eyes on his skin. They had been at this point so many times before. And he had never answered this question. 

The psychologist sighed barely audibly as his lips remained closed this time as well. 

"Does she know about Serbia?", the psychologist asked.

He shook his head mutely. Dr. Evans gave him a little more time in the silent hope that he would reconsider and finally talk - but in vain. 

“Do you love her?”, she suddenly seemed to change the topic. Sherlock swallowed but he nodded before he looked out of the window again. The first raindrops were running down the pane by now.

“How do people feel when this love is never shown?” 

“That’s not how it works. Not with us. Molly knows me. She knows who I am. She… she’s fallen in… with me… in spite of everything”, he stuttered and got a slight idea of how Molly must feel when her words were stuck in her throat. 

Molly…

“She may have fallen in love with you despite your quirks and shortcomings, Sherlock. But the fact that you’ve stepped into a relationship with her has changed her expectations. She is willing to give you everything: emotional and physical closeness, trust, affection. And she’s hoping for the same from you. Because it seems natural to her. Because these are human’s basic needs and keystones of a relationship”, she explained. Her words only washed over Sherlock. He didn’t know much about emotions and even less about relationships but even he had already suspected - but didn’t dare to admit - that he had been the reason for finding Molly in John’s arms. Lying the blame on John’s or Molly’s doorstep and feeling cheated was much more easier.

He remained silent, pressing his lips to a thin line. 

“Judged by what you told me about Molly, I can assure you that she didn‘t leave you. She only saved herself the pain that this lack of affection has caused”, Dr. Evans said calmly. Sherlock didn’t know if that statement was supposed to give him hope or to intensify his guilt. His self-hatred.

“Do you understand what I’m saying?“, she pushed when Sherlock didn’t show any reaction whatsoever. He nodded reluctantly, although he wasn‘t sure. 

“Sherlock, it may seem easy and right at first but running away is not a solution. You‘re running away from your problems, you’re running away from Serbia, you‘re running away from your emotions and ultimately from Molly. You don’t face any of it.“ 

Sherlock shot a direct and serious look at Dr. Evans for the first time, his brows puckered.

"Aren't you listening? She-", he intervened but didn't get very far. 

"No, she didn't. You kept her at distance just like you do with everything else. In order to not get hurt, to not feel. Especially not the fear," his therapist announced as directly as she had never before. Her statement hit him hard and made him look like a total coward. Who did that woman think she was? But the rage that was bubbling up inside him only confirmed her words. Sometimes it wasn't about what someone said but how one reacted to it. What was going on inside. He hated that she was right and that she could see through him.

"I think it's time for you to make a decision," Dr. Evans explained after a moment of silence. "You can eiter truly engage with Molly, give her what she needs, and accept what she gives you. With her help you can solve your blockades and perhaps even overwrite the experiences from Serbia. Or you can go on as before, keeping your demons and your bad dreams, and living a dull and dead life without ever having felt any true human warmth. Without ever having felt yourself. It's entirely up to you, Sherlock. "


	6. Chapter 6

Sherlock was lying in his bed and stared at the ceiling which reflected the incident light of the city. Sleeping was a curse. He never needed much sleep – it just tied too many resources he knew better things to do with – but now that the space next to him was empty, he hadn't had a chance to calm down. To stop the thoughts that were echoing through his head. Even the scent of Molly couldn't stand his presence any longer and had vanished. Just like the life she'd brought info his apartment...

Even worse than that, however, were the pictures that flickered through his head every time when he cosed his eyes. He gradually doubted the usefulness of depth psychology. All this blathering. If humans were naturally able to repress memories what could be so wrong with it? In any case, it was much more comfortable than dealing with oneself over and over again. Or with one's problems and one's past.

But he knew Dr. Evans was right. She was just as right as he was on so many occasions. Of course, they had talked about John. And about Sherlock's feelings. What it had triggered inside him to catch the two of them red-handed. How he evaluated his friendship with John now.

Blah, blah, blah.

Only questions again, just a little more self-knowledge and a few more doubts nagging in the back of his head. But no guidance on how to proceed and what he should do now. Psychology was just analysis of the inner self and not an instruction manual for the future. And yet he needed the sessions whether he was willing to admit it or not. Had needed them since Mary had died due to his arrogance. Or maybe even sooner. He had been too proud to seek for help himself. Had simply considered it unnecessary - after all he was still on top of things, wasn't he? No, he wasn't. It happened, yes, but surprisingly seldom...

He closed his eyes.

_Mary as she was lying in John’s arms, wounded by a gunshot, breathing heavily. Sherlock when he got shot in the torso as well. Blood. Pain. Screams. His and Marys._

Exhausted, he opened his eyes again. The lights on his bedroom ceiling were much more soothing. He heard loud voices from the outside. A couple who was fighting. Lucky them... The curtain was puffed out by the wind. Maybe he should focus on the noise in the streets. His eyes futtered shut once again.

_Molly. Smiling softly with her small lips. Touching him so shyly. Then a knife, a rope, a whip. Voices, Serbian words, screams again._

Annoyed, Sherlock swung his legs out of bed and sighed. He threw his dressing gown over and went into the kitchen. His stomach was growling. He opened the fridge. Empty. He grabbed the last apple of his fruit bowl, bit it twice and finally threw it into the bin. No appetite.

Then he went over to the mantelpiece and pulled out a box underneath the skull – his last remaining and reliable friend. His gaze briefly fell on his reflection in the mirror above. The lack of sleep was beginning to leave clearly visible marks. The circles under his eyes had become darker, his face was pale, even his hair seemed to have lost any energy. He looked at least six years older.

He opened the box, took the syringe with the cocaine and injected it into his arm without thinking about it. And without desinfectioning the injection site. He smiled. One more reason to despise himself. One more reason for Molly to reject him.

But the pictures in his head had to go. And this was the most efficient way to get rid of them.

***

Edinburgh was just lovely! It was almost as crowded with tourists as London and yet it was so completely different. Much more historical, much more Scottish and with a tiny nuance of the Middle Ages, as it was so often portayed in films.

Molly was overwhelmed by all the impressions! Since the conference starts at 9 a.m., she had arrived one day earlier and spend her time exploring the city centre. The hustle and bustle was loud enough to silence her thoughts and push her feelings of guilt into the background. Sooner or later, she will find herself worrying about all the incidents when she was back in her hotel room anyway. But for now, she walked down Princess Street, let herself be overwhelmed by all the advertisements and enjoyed the view of Edinburgh Castle, which she absolutely wanted to visit within the next few days. Fascinated, she even stopped at one or the other street artist, which she usually ignored in London, and took some photos with her phone.

After Molly had also familiarized herself with the route to the venue, she got herself something for dinner and took it to the hotel. She didn't want to sit alone in a restaurant. She would have looked so lonely and desperate and she wasn't in the mood to be approached by someone she didn't want to be approached by.

Although it was already quite cool, she sat down on the small balcony and enjoyed the twinkling lights of the city while pushing her noodles around the box. Today it was only a glass of water for her which was standing on the small weathered table and Molly decided to keep it that way. The minibar only contained one bottle of beer and some soft drinks - luckily the wine of the hotel was much too expensive. That should play right into her hands.

Time had come to pick herself up, dust herself off and start all over again. Edinburgh should be her turning point instead of a secret bolt hole for alcohol abuse. She had suffered enough, no one could speak of repression when she now decided to be done with Sherlock Holmes. She had been hoping and fighting far too long, only to find that it didn’t work. But at least nobody could say that she hadn’t tried. At some point, one just had to let go and move on, even if it was hard. She could only hope that she was able to continue working with him on a professional level. And that she hadn’t put her friendship with John at risk. The morning afterwards, he had behaved the same way adults do when they had overshot the mark:

He had looked at her with embarressment for a moment, kept the matter quiet and had otherwise dealt with her as he had before. And somehow she was grateful to him for it. She didn’t want to analyze it to death. She didn’t want it to stand between them. And above all, she didn’t want him to look down on her as if she was a streetwalker. Thank goodness they were too close to each other for that, and John also knew that he was too deeply involved in the matter himself to be able to just shirk responsibility. It just wasn’t him. She wa already good enough to make accusations herself for what she did...

_...But you've really lived up to the cliché..._

Molly immediately turned her attention to the excitedly flickering TV in the flat across the street before she had a chance to hop onto the carrousel of thoughts again. She didn’t want to get a seat in there any longer. The tickets were much too pricy and Molly was too tired of it to take another turn. And it wouldn’t undo her actions anyway, would it?

The cold was slowly creeping into her bones as the wind became stronger. She went inside, turned on the bedlights to not feel so abandoned, and disappeared into the bathroom. Her gaze fell onto the tempting tub and the rather luxurious bottle with the bath additive.

Oh, that was just the right thing for her!

She turned on the taps and got out of her clothes. Her reflection in the mirror still looked very exhausted but she noticed that the circles under her eyes were not as dark as the days before. Encouragingly, she smiled at herself. Then she sat down on the edge of the tub and dipped her bare feet into the foam, which was building up to a small mountain. Hot steam rose to her face.

Yes, it had definitely been the right decision to come to Edinburgh so rashly. Molly got into in the tub when it was sufficiently filled and warmed her cold limbs in the lavender-smelling water.

Yeah, iswas time to take care of herself and get rid of all the pain inside.

She closed her eyes and took a deep breath.

***

That bloody psychologist! She was the reason why Sherlock was running up and down the corridors of Barts in general and the pathology in particular, looking for Molly just like a desperate child who has lost his mother.

But she was nowhere to be found!

He knew her shifts, he knew her plans for holiday, he even knew about the few days off she's had to deal with the disaster he had caused. She should have been back by now. She couldn't stay away from work forever. Molly was more the person who sought distraction than isolation at home, anyway.

So where the hell had she gone?

He couldn't just call her. He had to come face to face with her and talk this out. Observing her reactions and facial expressions. And intervene immediately, if she wanted to run away from him again.

Sherlock had even looked for her in the ladies' room but the only thing he got were contemptuous looks. There was no trace of her anywhere. One of her colleagues said that he 'thinks' she 'possibly' wasn't even around this week. Or was it next week? Idiot, he had been completely useless. And it didn’t answer the question where she was instead, either. It was the third time, he was scurrying around the same corridor without any particular aim.

"Ah, Mr. Holmes!", someone greeted him and interrupted his thoughts. A doctor with a clipboard under his arm and old fashioned glasses on his nose smiled at him friendly. He looked important. Sometimes, it was an advantage to be so well-known... Sherlock‘s gaze went inconspicuously to the sign on the doctor's coat.

"Dr. Richardson! Can you tell me, by any chance, where to find Dr. Hooper?", he asked the senior physician without wasting his time with any empty phrases.

"Dr. Hooper? She's in Scotland right now. But I'm sure that another colleague will be happy to help you with your investigations too", he said and was about to set off for wherever he wanted to go.

"Scotland?" Sherlock asked, completely taken aback.

“Yes, Edinburgh, to be exact. I’m afraid I have to go, Mr. Holmes”, he said in a hurry, waving before he disappeared behind the next corner. Sherlock was thunderstruck. He headed for to the utility room just a few steps ahead and slipped through the door quickly. It was dark and cluttered in there but he didn’t care.

The pictures in front of his eyes started spinning. His hands were trembling uncontrollably and he was suddenly incredibly cold. Withdrawal symptoms? He leaned against the wall and slid down to the floor. This couldn’t be true! Wasn’t it enough that she left him and Baker Street? That he had to catch her with John? Why has she left the city and even a whole part of the country behind? Why not just the UK or even the continent?

God, she was indeed pulling on the metaphorical rug under his feet with unexpected strength. He stroked hard over his face. This nightmare never seemed to end and with every day that passed by he got even more aware that there had been no use at all in repressing his feelings. That he wasn‘t able to protect himself from everything.

He didn’t know how long he had been sitting there, trying to control his emotional and physical reactions but he knew he couldn't sit in this chamber forever like a picture of misery, trembling weakly. Confused, hit and aimless, he got to his feet again. Then he took something from the shelf and left his hiding as if he had only looked for some substance that he needed to continue his work in the lab.

His façade was still working. But it already showed some serious cracks…


	7. Chapter 7

Molly's inner voice had finally stopped teasing her for her last-minute decision to go to Scotland head over heels. She felt so much better!

Her tears had mostly dried up, even though she still tossed and turned in the bed of her hotel room for hours until she finally fell asleep. Everyday life was suddenly easier to cope with - even breathing seemed to be easier as if a burden had been taken off her chest, and she had both the energy and the desire to take an active part in her life again.

She secretly knew that this touch of euphoria was not real. Nor was it enough to numb the pain in the long run to finally dissolve it. But at least it was enough to gather courage again and she mutely thanked her boss for sending her to Edinburgh at such short notice.

The congress was not even half as boring as she had feared at the beginning. Prestigious physicians and scientists from all over Great Britain had come to spread their knowledge and some of them even managed to rekindle Molly’s passion for her profession. She had taken pages and pages of notes which she pulled out in the evenings to study them or to add something that had crossed her mind. It did her good to focus on herself and on her new medical knowledge.

In the afternoons, she spend the time sightseeing, visiting Edinburgh Castle, strolling through the botanical gardens and let herself be fascinated by the late flowers that painted the area in rich and beautiful colours. Life was colorful and not gray – if she allowed it to be...

Yesterday, she even booked a wellness day for the time of her holiday and planned a trip to the sea. It was way too cold to swim but she knew that a long walk on the beach would calm her nerves and ground her again.

She was sitting in the last lecture before lunch and her stomach growled. She felt that people have lost their enthusiasm and their concentration. Molly hoped that the next round of questions would be short since she had an appetite like she hasn’t had for ages! The gentleman next to her raised his hand while Molly was quickly writing down a thought.

“Have you ever worked with the police?”, he asked Dr. Fitzgerald, who had just finished his speech. Molly looked up from the paper, frowning.

This couldn’t be true. That voice!

"I beg your pardon, Sir? I don't see what you're getting at," the doctor replied and was just as confused as Molly was. His lecture had not been bad, at least from a professionell point of view. Objections like these, however, could pick it into pieces within seconds.

"Your thesis. If you would be working with criminologists and thus with substances that decompose quickly or are difficult to detect for other reasons, you would probably have already discovered the weakness of your theory yourself. "

Molly was stunned. And so was Dr. Fitzgerald behind his desk. He opened and closed his mouth without saying anything. From one moment to the other, there was a tension in the hall which brought sweat to the forehead of the person addressed. Not many people showed such tactlessness without realizing it. And not many had such a voice, such a low baritone.

Or did she just go crazy? The man next to her had short blond hair, wore glasses and a short shaved beard. As far as she could tell, his eyes were brown and his skin darker than…

“Would you be so kind to go a bit more into detail?”, the doctor eventually asked when he couldn't think of anything better to reply. Some heads turned in their direction, curious of what the mysterious man had up his sleeve.

“Oh,I would love to but I think we should let the attendees have their lunch break first. It might take a while”, the man said and smiled briefly.

Those lips. That voice. Those cheekbones! One was able to change a lot of his appearance – but not everything. And it was quite hard to hide arrogance under a layer of make-up, wasn’t it?

A murmur went through the crowd and Dr. Fitzgerald nodded in agreement before the first attendees made their way to the large double door. The man, whom Molly was now staring at blatantly, suddenly met her gaze and said:

“Miss, do you happen to know a good snack bar nearby? The buffet here is terrible. ”

***

Sherlock struggled to maintain his role when he was staring so directly into Molly’s face. It was nice to look at her again. Into her hazelnut-brown eyes. At her screaming colourful sweater, which she had worn when they had been investigating together back then. Her hair was tied but a strand had come loose und refused to stay behind her ear. The sweet smell of Molly had been rising to his nose the whole time he had been sitting next to her. The scent he missed so much since his sheet had been unable to hold it.

But everything stood or fell with her reaction.

Sherlock’s nerves were stretched to breaking point. He was very much hoping to have the moment of surprise on his side. That she might think, “Wow, he went all the way to find you.”

He had been afraid that his cover would be blown much sooner. One attentive side glance would have been enough for her to identify him hours earlier. She knew him like no other. And even though time had been passing by far too slowly and Sherlock's excitement had been growing with every minute, he had enjoyed her presence. She had been so close to him, so… within reach. She had not run away from him or the situation and although he'd been waiting for the big moment, he had at the same time embraced the moment of silent and unaware acceptance.

But now that the curtain had dropped, Molly was just looking at him stunned. It was as if time had stopped. As if only the two of them existed. He risked a cautious smile but Molly just pressed her lips together.

Not good.

The attendees of the congress tried to make their way past them, some even scolded that they were tying up traffic – completely blind to what was happening at that very moment. But how should they have known? This would have been hard to deduce even with such a good observational skill as Sherlock’s.

_Please, Molly!_

It was a silent plea. She couldn’t send him away. Not after he'd decided to come clean with her. Not without at least giving him a chance to apologize.

“I’m sorry, Sir. I can’t help you”, she said after an eternity of a silent duel of eyes. Molly’s revealed sadness but her posture was straight and resolute as she grabbed her bag, heading out with the crowd.

Paralyzed, Sherlock was still standing where he was. He couldn‘t allow this to happen! He needed to talk to her at least!

A sudden jolt went through his body, released him from the shock and made him run after her. He pushed ruthlessly past those many people, then he grabbed Molly's arm and dragged her out of the stream and to the wall of the long hallway.

"Molly, let's talk!", he said concisely and honestly and emphatically. But her face was completely stony.

"I've already tried that, Sherlock. Remember? There was no sense in it. And now it's too late," she replied not just firmly but also resignedly. And yes, she had tried indeed. She had tried to get closer to him - emotionally and physically. She had tried to fix it. And now, she showed the attitude of a person who had run his head against the wall way too often, causing nothing but a bleeding nose until he finally realized that it was useless. Until all hope and energy had gone.

And Sherlock was to blame for that attitude. For the first time in his life, he found himself running his head against the wall again and again until he realized how powerless he actually was. Until he had to admit that it all had gotten out of his hand. How much it hurt when all the pleading, begging and urging came to nothing.

“No, Molly. It’s not. Not if you let me explain”, he tried but her face only became more serious.

“How many chances have I given you to explain yourself? How many of them did you use? How many times have I been there for you? How long have I been patient? How often have I forgiven you for your mistakes? Did it ever occur to you that my patience might come to an end at some point? That I can’t take it anymore?“, she asked and the worst of it was the complete calmness of her voice as she hurled those questions at him. Her detachment. She was tired of giving in.

He understood her words very well but he couldn’t accept them.

Sherlock would’ve been okay with her yelling at him. He would have understood if she had punched his chest because of his cowardice. Or if she had burst into tears. But what was going on here caused all the warning bells in his head to ring. He was about to lose and it almost killed him. He was so poorly armed in terms of social competence that he didn't know what to do. How he got her to give him another chance.

“Molly, I know I’m...”

“Leave me alone, Sherlock. Please”, she said, and finally – thank God – her lower lip started trembling and her eyes filled with tears. It was a proof that she still felt something for him, wasn't it? That he could still change the course?

But the meaning of her words reached him only one tick too late. When he realized what she had just asked him to do, he felt his facade fall into pieces, felt something snap inside him. He gasped for air as if someone had just rammed a knife between his ribs. He couldn't do anything but watch the movements of Molly's ponytail as she quickly walked away from him, disappearing into the crowd.

Was that the just punishment? Didn't he deserve to be dumped after he had dumped her? Having the mirror held up to him?

Probably.

Most certainly, even.

He knew it from a rational point of view. But he suddenly felt a pain in his heart that he had never felt before. That he never wanted to feel. From which he had been running away because he secretly knew how destroying it would be. Feelings.

He pulled the hair that wasn't his, missed the pain that it would normally have caused and kicked against the wall instead.

_Bloody, damn hell!_

_Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!_

“Sir, are you alright?”, someone from the staff asked, cautiously approaching him. He didn’t have the power to respond. He already needed the rest of it to keep the last bit of his composure.

He nodded silently before rushing down the hallway to leave this side arm of Hell. He ran and ran and ran, even when the building was a mile behind him. He ran until he could feel his muscles burning and distracting him from the pain inside. He ran until his lungs were aching, until he was on his beam-ends. Only to make sure that he wasn't about to go crazy.

He ran and ran and ran. Until his body couldn’t take it any longer.

  
  



	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since I am nice and on schedule I'm posting this chapter one day earlier than usual :D  
> Merry Christmas to everyone and some lovely holidays despite the pandemic! Stay safe, dear readers!

His legs were burning like fire, his lungs aching and crackling. He felt it stitching somewhere underneath his ribs as he was lying on the ground, staring up to the far too clear and blue sky. Heavy clouds or cold rain would have matched his inner life way better than this disgustingly cheerish weather. 

His chest lifted and lowered under his rapid breaths. Air, he needed air.

What was going on almost felt like drowning, except that his muscles were furthermore trembling with exhaustion. Sherlock had no idea where he was or how far he had been running. He hardly noticed the startled and incredulous looks of the pepole who were passing by, and when he did, he couldn’t care less. They were irrelevant.

The only thing that mattered was that he had failed. That his plan hadn't worked. He had only wanted to talk to Molly personally – to sort it out and to prevent her from running away again. But he had just let her go, had been too paralyzed to intervene. Weak and cowardly. 

"Sir, can I help you? Do you need a doctor?", an older gentleman asked him but Sherlock just shook his head silently - still gasping for breath. No doctor would have been able to help him with this matter.

He finally got up, stroked his sweaty hair back, and shook his long and suddenly too heavy coat to free it from the dust of the road. Then he headed for the nearest bench and sat down. The burning of his muscles and lungs had eased a bit but he was still tuckered out. He had just become too old for that shit.

But at least his head was completely empty now. Either because his body was still busy with the extraordinary strain, or because he didn’t have a plan B. No alternative to what shouldn’t have gone wrong. He lacked facts and experience in this field to rely on. His only social compass had failed when he‘d shoved his member into his girlfriend.

He was alone and he was clumsy.

John…

He won‘t think about him now. That would only have made his neck snap.

Sherlock focussed on finding his bearings instead. He caught sight of a city map on a large information board, got up again and sluggishly made his way towards it. Function. He had to function and to get back to the hotel. Controll and refresh himself with a shower and fresh clothes. And maybe even with a little whiskey and, if all of that fails, with the cocaine he had buried deep down in his suitcase. He mustn’t despair. He mustn‘t wallow in self-pity again. That was nothing but paralyzing.

He had to find another way. There had to be one…

***

"Room 103," Molly said to the young gentleman behind the counter as she returned to the hotel that evening. She was still puzzled due to her encounter with Sherlock today and had barely been paying attention to the following lectures. She was glad she'd found her way back to the hotel at all, now that she had once again hopped onto that mental merry-go-around…

"Very well, madam," the receptionist said, turning to the many small compartments that housed the keys of the hotel guests.

"Miss, are you sure you left the key here?", he suddenly asked insecurely and Molly stared at the empty compartment on the wall in disbelief.

“Yes, I am”, she said, rummaging around in her bag again. The man was obviously uncomfortable with the situation, since he had to make sure that no stranger gained unauthorized access to the rooms. “No, it‘s not here but…”, Molly began and then it dawned upon her that this was not a coincidence. Not after what had happened today. She rolled her eyes.

He wasn’t serious, was he?

She thought for a moment. With the help of the hotel staff, she could have had the room opened and Sherlock thrown out. Surely, they would then report him to the Scottish police for burglary, which would in turn lead to some very nice headlines in the press. In addition, Molly would have revealed a security lack in the hotel and thus damaged its reputation – perhaps unnecessarily so because Sherlock was just far more intelligent than any criminal out there.

That was clever, really clever.

Sherlock knew that she would never do that. It would have caused too much trouble she didn't want to be part of. She sighed in resignation.

"Miss?", the gentleman behind the counter asked again. Molly searched her jacket pocket briefly, pretending to have found the key. She quickly headed to the elevators and got to the first floor.

She would just throw him out herself then!

Anger at what he had done, temporarily numbed her sentimentality, causing her to hurry down the hallway resolutely and purposefully. She was about to knock on the door when she noticed that it was already opened ajar. Molly hesitated in surprise. Carefully, she pushed it further open and entered the room. There was no one to be seen. It may have been too dark for that anyway since the only light seemed to come from the small lamp above the bed.

The smell of food rose to her nose and an incredible warmth crept through her clothes. It was at least five hundred degrees in the room! She dropped the bag on the floor, pulled the jacket off her shoulders and took off her colorful sweater as well before moving closer. Sherlock, just as she knew him – with his dark curls, his white, neatly ironed shirt and his immaculate black trousers with matching leather shoes – was standing at her balcony door with one hand in his pocket, looking into the distance. His presence, his silhouette, even the view of his back were enough to make the butterflies in her belly fly again.

_Stand your ground, Dear!_

"Sherlock, I thought I made myself clear today," she eventually said, trying to sound as firmly as possible. He turned to her, looking her directly into the face. Those eyes!

"I believe I have expressed a similarly unequivocal wish," he said just as firmly and rentlessly. "Dinner?"

Molly's eyes fell onto the small table that was surrounded by cosy two armchairs. And onto the two bell-covered plates and the glasses of wine. Wine. Again.

"Sherlock, you can't just barge in here and…", she began but stopped when he stepped closer.

Oh God…

_Pull yourself together, will you?_

"Why not?", he asked in his baritone that caused goosebumps all over her skin.

"Because… I-I…" she stammered.

_Sweetheart, this is not very convincing…_

“That's what you've always wanted...", he said and did not blink a single time. He was so close, Molly was able to smell him. What did he ask just now? What did she want? Goddamn it! “The two of us, alone and undisturbed?”

_Jesus Christ, did he really just say that?_

Molly swallowed and stumbled backwards when he still didn‘t stop to come closer.

“Yes… No… Not under these circumstances”, she managed to utter and suddenly felt the cold wall on her back. Not good.

“Unfortunately, that’s the only circumstance I have…”, Sherlock said, then he suddenly cupped her face with both hands and kissed her. Shocked as she was, Molly didn’t react at first but then she tried to push him away. This wasn’t right. This wasn’t what it should be. There was far too much standing between them, far too much for them to discuss first.

Sherlock was completely unimpressed by her attempt to get away from him. He was standing in front of her like a rock, pressing his mouth and body even harder against hers. A mouth and a body she had never felt like this before. Molly reacted to the kiss without her wanting to. Felt her pulse quicken, felt the long-suppressed desire making its way back to the surface.

“Please, Molly”, he breathed on her lips as she still didn’t show the slightest inclination to return the kiss. Sherlock grabbed her hands, which were still rebelling against him half-heartedly, and pressed them against the wall as well, interlacing his fingers with hers. Then he tried again – less hard, less demanding until Molly finally gave up. Until she couldn’t help but move her lips too.

This was a real, true kiss. Not a perfunctory, half-hearted one like she knew it from him. This one was intimate and emotional and so… desperate. Sherlock Holmes was desperate - and apparently because of her. His tongue swiped over her lips, begging her to let him in as if this was his last chance to ever taste her again. He gasped for air, reacted to her when she opened her mouth – just as she had always wished. He nibbled on her lower lip, kissed her more passionately, let her feel his hot breath on her skin.

God, he knew what he was doing!

Molly’s thoughts became quieter, her body’s reactions louder until a pleasant sigh finally escaped her throat as their tongues met again, making a wave of excitement wash over her body.

Sherlock paused and looked at her with his green-blue eyes she got so easily lost in. Hesitantly, he pulled away from her, smiling gently with his cheeks slightly reddened. Molly felt caught and exposed. And so weak because she had been incapable of stopping him and herself. What he had done made her feel uncomfortable, even though she had longed for it. It didn‘t come naturally, it happened for a reason. He had kissed her – urging her – to convince her of something and it didn’t feel right.

Sherlock’s gaze went to a strand of hair that had become loose and gently pushed it behind her ear. Then his eyes wandered further down to the neckline of her shirt and finally to her erect nipples that were shining through the fabric of her shirt. She was only wearing a bralette, things like these were actually covered by her sweater. Embarrassment overtook her. Why did she had to take that thing off?

Molly tried to cross her arms over her chest and shirked from his look.

“No”, Sherlock said to her surprise, leading her arms down again. He stroked her breast so casually and softly in doing so that Molly could not tell whether the touch was intended or not.

"Shouldn’t I rather get myself under control?”, she asked sharply and reproachfully in spite of that tiny little bit of arousal the kiss had caused. His words had just hit her too hard. So hard that she couldn’t just silence them away. So hard that she couldn’t even give in to her physical reactions. He had pushed her away and rejected her so many times that she now felt ashamed for her own needs.

Sherlock looked deeply into her eyes and for the first time revealed the sadness that raged inside him. The remorse.

“Molly, you know me. You know that such comments say more about me than about you”, he said.

“And that’s why I have to tolerate them?”, she countered. He was walking on thin ice. On very thin ice.

“No. No, of course not. I’m sorry. I really am”, he almost whispered. Molly nodded silently and turned away again. She knew it took a lot to get someone like Sherlock Holmes to apologize. However, she doubted that he really understood the significance of his words and actions. What it had done to her. It would take time for that wounds to heal. 

Now she indeed crossed her arms in front of her chest, which of course didn’t go unnoticed by him and remained silent.

“I think I wasn’t entirely straight with you”, he eventually said. Molly laughed bitterly.

“Oh, really?”

“Molly, please. This is not easy for me. There’s so much I need to tell you. But not here. Not now. I need London to do that”, he explained, pain reflecting on his face. „Please. Don’t run away again. Not you. These three times were…”

_Aaaawww, look at him! He uses the word 'please' almost inflationary measured by his standards, doesn’t he? And all because of you…_

Great, that didn't help at all! Hadn't her inner voice been of the opinion that she should stand her ground and reject him just a moment ago?

"Wait… Three times?", she repeated.

"Yes. First at Baker Street, then today at the Congress, and once when I have been looking for you at Barts. In fact, you were already gone by that time. To Scotland..."

Molly swallowed. He had obvioulsy trying to approach – to find - her without her knowing. He had been looking for her, while she had accused him of not even lifting a finger and just letting her go. The thought that he had been sitting in his armchair, not knowing how to deal with the situation just tore Molly’s heart apart. She had been far too busy feeling hurt. But could she really blame herself? What choice had she had?

“Why the hell did you show up here - now when I’m finally feeling better?” she asked resignedly and felt something wet running down her cheek. And a lump forming in her throat. Her vision blurred. That was so unfair, so damn unfair! Why did he do this to her? Why did he let it happen in the first place when he claimed she was so important to him?

“High-functioning sociopath, remember?”, Sherlock replied half jokingly but didn't laugh at his words himself. Then he unexpectedly undid his cuff links and rolled up his sleeve. Silently, he held out his arm, which was decorated with just too many injection sites. This gesture showed more than he could have expressed with words.

“Sherlock, I...", Molly began but was too speechless, too stunned to build an adequate sentence. The tears, which were now running freely, driped on her shirt but she didn't care.

“My bed is... so... big. So empty...", Sherlock added barely audibly and suddenly seemed so helpless. Seeing him like this – so vulnerable, almost pleading – just hurt too much. She realized that he must have suffered at least as much as she did. So much that he had even come all the way to Scotland to prove something to her – despite the incident with John. He would have had every right to reject her after catching them, and yet he didn't. On the contrary...

Molly’s arms reached out for him, wrapping around his hips. Sherlock responded immediately and pulled her closer, as if he would never let her go again. She heard his heart beating on her ear, wildly and excitedly and full of adrenaline. Sherlock tenderly stroked over her hair while she was crying at the curve of his neck, being lulled by his scent. All of a sudden, this was so... real.

It could have been so much easier, couldn't it? Why did they cause all that drama? 

Molly didn't know how long they have been standing there, and she didn't care in the least that she had soaked his expensive shirt with her tears. All that mattered was his closeness and his gentleness, which only very slowly - bit by bit - repaired what had been broken. She couldn't tell if she was able to give him another chance. Whether she had the energy for it. She only knew that she needed this moment right now. That they both needed it like a junkie needed his fix.


	9. Chapter 9

The next morning, Molly nestled sleepily into her pillow once more before she slowly woke up. She didn't know where she was or where the comforting warmth was coming from at first but then she noticed the weight of an arm wrapped around her waist.

Sherlock's arm.

Of course, she had allowed him to share the bed with her. For that, she had even borrowed him the shirt of her second pyjama she had packed for her one week's holiday. The night had been quite restful but relatively short. It was as if something had gotten back on track again. Molly was at peace and comfortable, yet the worry in the back of her head remained that she might be following the wrong path. Sherlock showed the signs that all men showed when a woman decided to break up for real. It could be fear of loss that had overtaken him. The memory of their past together. But was it love?

As beautiful and stirring as last night might have been, it also left a rather negative connotation. Molly felt that there was still something in the wind. That it was somehow too good to last. Especially when she felt Sherlock’s hand gently searching for her under the blanket.

“You don’t have to do this”, she whispered instead of a good morning, trying to sound sympathetic rather than dismissive. It wasn’t that she didn’t enjoy the touch. He’d just never made any attempt like this, and she didn’t want him to do it for the wrong reasons. For her sake only.

Sherlock paused and let his hand rest where it was. Molly felt the warmth of his body at her back, although he hardly touched her at all.

“And what if I want to?”, he asked right behind her. How long had it been since she’d been lying next to him? It felt like ages!

"It's okay, then, I guess," she replied, smiling softly. Her eyes were still closed. Sleepily, she moved a tiny bit closer – secretly seeking more of his warmth. The hand on her hip continued its careful exploration and stroked her bare thighs and back up over her sides. His caress left a sweet tingle on her skin which couldn't be wiped away by her worries. Sherlock pressed his body against hers. She felt his fingertips pushing her hair aside and his lips breathing a tender kiss on the sensitive spot just below her ear.

"You really never noticed?", he murmured. Molly didn't know if it was the kiss or his baritone that made her shiver.

“Noticed what?”, she asked.

“My... physical interest.”

Molly burst into giggling involuntarily and opened her eyes. The twilight had already painted the room in soft colours. She could clearly make out the outlines of the room furnishings despite the closed curtain.

“Your what?” she asked amused.

“You know exactly what I mean”, Sherlock replied, and Molly tried to be serious again. If he was talking about things like these, she shouldn’t make fun of his inexperience. She actually found it cute – as far as the term “cute” was appropriate for someone like Sherlock Holmes.

“Sorry”, she said quietly after clearing her throat. She didn’t have to think about his question. If there had ever been a moment in which he was torn to her sexually, she would have noticed and memorized it forever.

“Do you remember our first film night?”, he then asked.

"Oh God, yes. You hated it. The film was too predictable for you. Stock-still and annoyed, you sat on your sofa, constantly nagging and giving away half the plot. And you seemed to be impatiently waiting for it to end," she answered. And Molly had longed for the end as well to release Sherlock from his agony. The evening had been a desaster and hadn't met her expectations in the least.

"I didn't hate it, I was just trying to pull myself together. Don't think I haven't noticed your missing bra. I always do, Molly, and you rarely wear one. I didn't know where to put my arm and your head was so nicely bedded on my crotch the whole time."

Holy Mary, was he serious?

Molly was so perplexed that her jaw dropped. In disbelief, she turned her head to him, her face only a few inches away from his. She had never expected that such a thing could be enough to stimulate his imagination. “Or think of the afternoon when I was running you a bath and you had trouble undressing because the zipper on your jeans got stuck.”

Molly immediately turned away from him again, hiding her face in her hands. "Good Lord, don’t tell me you noticed that!“ This was more than embarrassing!

"Your curses were hard to miss. I was standing in front of the door and would have loved to give you a hand..." he said with a humming voice. Just the thought of him standing before her - with his penetrating look and superior posture - and opening her jeans with his delicate fingers without blinking a single time, made her take a deep breath. Maybe it wasn't that bad that she had turned her back on him. Heat rose to her cheeks.

Before Molly could say anything, his fingers slid exploratively under the hem of her shirt. Only a few inches and far from the really exciting spots but in the silent promise of what could follow. Molly couldn't help but imagine his fingers on other parts of her body. She wasn't wearing a bra now either. It would have been easy for him to push her shirt up until his fingertips found the soft skin of her breasts. Until they could have wandered over her erect nipples and squeeze them gently.

Molly forced herself to suppress a lustful sigh. She was way too responsive to his touches.

"Why didn't you?", she asked challengingly, closing her eyes again to enjoy the intimacy of the moment. Only God knew if they will ever get to that point again.

Sherlock retreated into silence as his hand slowly went over her panties, getting closer and closer to her bottom. She felt his attentive gaze on the nape of her neck. If he kept on doing this, she'd just melt under his touch and already moan inappropriately. How would she react when he let his hand slide _into_ her panties?

Molly wondered if he just had an erection. She only had to get a little bit closer to him to know for sure. Maybe she would even move her hips over the thin fabric of his underwear to tease him but she didn't dare. He had pushed her away so many times that she did not want to destroy this moment of closeness at any cost.

"I hope he's given you what I couldn't...", Sherlock suddenly said without interrupting his touches.

Okay, _he_ was apparently ready to ruin the moment at any cost...

Molly immediately froze and wondered if she had heard him right. This was not the way one should start a conversation like this... At least not in a moment of tentatively allowed togetherness. She turned her head again and met his gaze. He shirked from her look and rolled on his back, his eyes fixed on the ceiling. This tenth of a second of eye contact had been enough for her to recognize the sadness in it. No anger, no disappointment, no accusations. Only pure vulnerability. From one moment to the other, Molly felt more guilty than ever before.

„Sherlock, I... I know what it looked like but..."

"Oh Molly, please, don't give me that speech! Even I know it. Why do you want to top it all in trying to disappoint me?", he said frankly and matter-of-factly without looking at her.

"But it's true!", she countered. Did they really have to have this conversation now?

"I know what I've seen," he said and now Molly felt a silent despair bubbling up inside her belly that he might never believe her. As always, he was far too convinced of himself - or of his abilities.

"Tell me what you've seen, then," she demanded, following a spontaneous inspiration and looking at him steadily. Sherlock was almost more attractive with his tousled curls from sleep than after his meticulous morning wash. The sight of him was almost grotesque. The curls she couldn't get enough of, his hurt and currently also horrified look, which she on the other hand could hardly stand, and in addition, a pale pink women's shirt with a cat pic on the breast pocket. That was worse than any soap.

"Are you really asking me to recap it all?", he asked sceptically, almost agonized.

"Yes, Sherlock. You're usually so obsessed with facts. Just tell me: What did you see?" Molly was fully aware of what she was asking him to do. How despicable it actually was. But if he trusted himself and his abilities only, there was no other way.

For a moment, there was an cold and tense silence hanging in the small room. Molly straightened up and pulled her knees to her chest. She was wide awake and wouldn't let him off the hook. Sherlock swallowed hard and broke eye contact again.

"You two. Intertwined. Naked, obviously," he said brokenly, gritting his teeth so hard that his jaw muscles were clearly visible.

"Wrong. What of us did you see?"

"Your bare arms. Parts of your chests", he corrected himself.

"Right. Where were our clothes?"

"Molly, why are you doing this to me?", he asked, reluctantly meeting her eyes.

He had brought this subject up, hadn't he? Obviously it had been in his mind, nagging him for quite a while but at the same time he refused to seriously deal with it. It surprised Molly that the great Sherlock Holmes had allowed his first impression to blind him so easily. He hadn't shown the slightest spark of emotion but apparently even he had his limits. That he had lost his objectivity and his detachment really shook Molly's world. She had often wished for him to be a little more human. Voluntarily. Because he trusted her. That she had torn down his wall so violently hit her hard but right now was not the time to think about it. Now, at this very moment, she had to be the stronger one and push her emotionality into the background.

"Just answer my question. Where were our clothes?"

He sighed and avoided her gaze again. "In front of the sofa."

"What was on top?", she continued her interrogation.

"What? I don't know... I've saved myself the trouble of cataloguing everything," he countered, slowly getting impatient. That wasn't good. Molly had to be careful and not let herself be provoked.

"Don't lie to me, Sherlock," she admonished him as gently as she could.

"I... It was all messy and rumpled. You didn't bother to fold everything neatly and stack it on a pile, did you?"

"Then let me put it this way: If I had had sex with John, what would be on top? On whatever pile of clothes?", she asked. To be fair, that was a shot in the dark even for her as the interrogater. Molly herself could not remember where what had been and how. She even failed to remember what color John's shirt had been. Those questions was merely her poor attempt to solve an emotional problem with pure logic. Because Sherlock still understood that best. He frowned and eventually looked her straight in the eye.

"Underwear?"

_Bingo. Not badly played, my Dear!_

"Exactly. Have you seen underwear anywhere?", she finally asked her last question. Sherlock thought again for a moment, then suddenly his expression brightened as he slowly shook his head.

"So you haven't...?"

"That's what I said. No, we haven't. Pretty close but no", Molly assured him again, hoping he wouldn't ask why. There was no need for him to know that a crying toddler from upstairs had been the reason for an abrupt end to a very promising love play. Molly hadn't intended to stop. And neither had John...

Sherlock took a deep breath and stroked his hands over his face. Then he started laughing. Molly smiled away her guilt and prayed to heaven that the matter was off the table now. Sherlock straightened up, laid his hand on Molly's neck, and pulled her closer. His kiss was brief but full of relief. Molly was amazed at how good and bad a person could feel at the same time. She had engulfed him into this misery. And had helped him out again. This morning was both bizarre and kind of exhausting.

"That explains a lot..." he said as he let his thumb run over her cheek. Now it was Molly who frowned.

"Explains what?"

Sherlock pointed to a small scratch on his cheek. Molly had barely noticed it until now, believing it was probably from his case.

"John?", she now asked. Sherlock nodded confirmatively.

"He came to Baker Street a few days later to explain himself. I cut him off and told him I'd be glad that he had finally started getting back at me for killing his wife." He sounded like he was talking about today's weather forecast. Molly's jaw droppedagain this morning. How could he be such an incredible asshole? She was so stunned by his tactlessness that she didn't know what the hell she could say in response.

"I know, that's the next thing I should take care of", he gave himself the answer. She nodded in agreement.

“God, Sherlock. You just can’t accuse him of that! It's...“

“Awful?”, he asked. At least he seemed to realize that himself. God, he was really below par... Social incompetence was one thing but somehow Sherlock currently seemed to be slipping from crises to crises...


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did warn you of some graphic depictions of violence, didn't I?
> 
> I'm going to do it again now...

Like a madman, Sherlock was running down the fire escape to catch this bloody smuggler just a few steps ahead of him. Cold wind hit the skin of his face but he barely noticed it. A drop of sweat appeared to be totally unfazed by the natural barrier of his brows and ran into his eye, blurring his vision. Or was it his falling blood pressure that made the images in front of his eye blurr? He had absorbed quite a lot of blows. More than he had expected. Blood was flowing out of an injury on his shoulder, ruining his shirt. His head was throbbing and he was sure his right temple was not quite intact either.

Irrelevant.

He had to get that bastard but it didn't look good. Sherlock had always been half a step ahead of him today. It had all gone exactly according to plan - until he had made the mistake of rashly lulling himself into a sense of security. He had become careless and had clearly underestimated the physical superiority of his opponent. Or had overestimated his own. Maybe it was time to admit that certain things were just harder to do in his mid-40s than they had been in his 20s - even with regular exercise.

There were only twelve more steps to take until he'd reach the ground but the guy was still incredibly strong so that the distance between them was increasing inch by inch. This bloke was winning and had already reached firm ground by now, which made Sherlock curse inwardly.

He heard a car speeding up and grated his teeth. Of course, he wasn't alone, how could he be? Damn! The pursecutee gave the driver a sign. The latter came dangerously near his accomplice, who half-jumped into the vehicle through the open door and made a fine getaway. The scene could have been from a Hollywood film.

Sherlock suppressed a scream. All for nothing! It had all been for nothing and who knew if he would ever get another chance like that! With John backing him up, he surely could have turned the tide. Maybe even with Lestrade's help, if he hadn't been too proud to call the Yard. But it was too late now and if he wasn't careful, he would pass out from his injuries and fall into the mud. Not pretty at all, especially not for a Holmes. How would that have looked like? Slaughtered like a pig on damp cold ground. This would have just been the kind of thing the press was waiting for so they could tear him to pieces. After all his exploits, they must long for a defeat. Sherlock could already picture the headlines and photographs in the daily newspaper in front of him. He had better get out of here quickly - preferably to a doctor. His shoulder was burning like fire. There was still enough adrenaline in his bloodstream to stay on his feet and ignore most of the pain.

He'd been through worse. Much worse.

Panting, he searched for his mobile and was relieved to find it still in his pocket. Undamaged. He swallowed his frustration, headed towards the street and called the taxi driver of his trust. Maybe he would at least get the opportunity to take care of another problem...

***

"Dr. Watson? An emergency," the assistant burst into the room right in the middle of an examination and was promptly pushed aside by a blood-soaked Sherlock.

_What the hell?_

John felt like he was having a deja-vú. After Mary's death, he hadn't spoken to Sherlock again until his life had been in danger. And now, after two or three weeks of silence (or was it even more?), he just walked into his office, looking exactly the same as he did back then when he had harpooned that pig. It almost seemed like a plan, downright staged. What had worked once would work again, right?

But John was an experienced doctor. Sherlock's face had gone quite pale, his forehead damp with sweat. He was breathing faster than usual and his hands were slightly shaking. The hair on his right temple was matted with dried blood that had come from a small and harmless injury underneath but the blood on his shirt was still wet. The fabric was tattered at the shoulder and John could clearly see the wound underneath. Ugly, but not life-threatening.

And not faked.

He sighed. He wasn't ready to deal with him yet.

His patient, Mrs. Dimmond, shrieked out when she caught sight of Sherlock, clapping a hand over her mouth. "Dear God," she said in shock and went as pale as the emergency patient in the doorway within seconds. John feared she was going to faint at any moment.

"Mrs. Dimmond? I'll get your sick note and prescription ready. If you would please take a seat outside once again?", he said calmly, hoping his tone was enough to reassure his patient that Sherlock wasn't closer to death than to life. Mrs. Dimmond got up hesitantly and eventually rushed out of the door with her eyes still fixed on Sherlock. John wouldn't blame her. The famous detective looked like an accident you can't take your eyes off.

John remained seated at his desk and coolly pointed to the gurney Sherlock was supposed to sit down on.

"Shirt off", he told him tersely as he took his time to prepare the said documents and hand them to his confused looking assistant.

"Do you need me here?", she asked but John shook his head. He might not be in the mood to talk to Sherlock but from a medical point of view, he was delighted to take care of this patient himself. He came over to Sherlock, quickly looking at the the injury on his shoulder once again and then preparing all the necessary instruments.

"Lie down," he said, reached for a pair of disposable gloves, and took a seat on his stool. An almost diabolical grin was playing around the corners of his mouth as he soaked a cloth in too much disinfectant and started cleaning the still slightly bleeding wound. Sherlock panted for breath with a hiss - his face contorted with pain.

Oh, John would do his best. He was a good doctor. But this time, he would also make sure to obtain some satisfaction. Sherlock seemed to notice the glint in his eye and looked at him insecurely. John decided to ignore his gaze and when the wound was clean, he routinely prepared needle and stitch.

"As a military doctor in war, you don't just stitch up smashed kneecaps, you know. You have to serve at various fronts and sometimes you don't take away people's pain. Quite the opposite, I'm afraid..."

It was a chapter of his life that he usually kept secret. He had seen terrible things – but he had also done terrible things. At command, of course. Soldiers were not supposed to ask questions about ethics and moral standards. They were supposed to obey. Especially in war, where no one won but only lost. Territory, a leg, the soul. And not seldom his life. Whoever questioned that was about to lose his mind too. What he had done back then was haunting him in his dreams to the very day but it had become much rarer over the years. It wasn’t about the frightening pictures that came to his mind every now and again. No, it was about the pleasure he had occasionally felt when the enemy was crying and twitching helplessly. Because of him. And about the fascination that he could not only help but also harm others with his medical knowledge. In a highly efficient manner...

And in a few rare cases, both of it came together. Just like now...

He inserted the needle into Sherlock’s sensitive flesh without using any anesthetic. The detective bit his hand to prevent himself from screaming.

It had felt so good to come at Sherlock back then. To get rid of the pain of his wife’s death with fists and kicks. Even though it had been abominable and false and so wicked ,John had enjoyed it, had felt satisfaction when his Best Man had been lying on the ground – suddenly so much less arrogant and presumptuous. Should that have made him feel bad? Probably. But that’s not how the interplay of grief, despair and an excessively high testosterone level worked.

But those days had been different. While blaming Sherlock for Mary's death, he had secretly known that it had been an accident. Or more to the point: Mary's free decision. But Sherlock's verbal outburst the other day couldn't be justified so easily and also not with the fact that John had touched his friend's girlfriend - who, at least in theory, had not been his girlfriend anymore by then.

Sherlock had done it deliberately. To hurt him - John.

_You don't have to explain yourself, John. I'm glad you've finally started getting back at me for killing your wife._

Not only had Sherlock dragged Mary into this, even though she had nothing to do with it at all. But also had he intended to hurt John. No, he had also accused him of seeking for revenge. Of patiently waiting for a day to come. He had accused him of having touched Molly on purpose.

That audacity was hard to top and John needed all his energy to restrain himself from inflicting some more pain.

He stitched Sherlock up while he was panting and squirming under his treatment. He smelled of sweat, blood, even a little bit of fear. Who knew what he had done again – John wasn't interested in the least. The more interesting question to him was what had brought the detective into his office when he was so angry with him. Because he definitely was, otherwise he would never have hurled those words at him a few weeks ago. It was Sherlock - hiding behind arrogance and rentlessly dishing it out when he felt attacked. It was what he was best at. But John knew how to hurt someone as well.

Sherlock eyes fluttered shut in pain when John inserted his needle into the wounded flesh again but he got the bizarre impression that Sherlock took it voluntarily. That he hadn't expected John to be careful after what had happened. He seemed to accept his punishment willingly and did not utter a single word of protest.

This was only half as satisfying as John had hoped and made him grit his teeth in annoyance. After six stitches, the wound was finally closed and John done with his work. Unfortunately, the injury to Sherlock's temple didn't need to be patched up. A large band-aid would do. He covered the two injuries professionally and without any other word to Sherlock.

The latter sighed in relief when he realized that the treatment was over. His hands were still shaking and his face had even gone a shade paler. John should have given him something to stabilize his circulation and to keep him from passing out or throwing up. But Sherlock had survived far worse things - he'd be fine. John's sympathy was clearly limited.

“I assumed that a few words of apology would not be enough. Are we even now?”, Sherlock once again asked just a tiny bit too arrogantly.

“One more sentence like this and I’ll break your jawbone”, John replied coldheartedly as he was clearing away all his instruments.

“Molly told me...”

_Ah._

“There are more patients waiting outside”, John interrupted him while washing his hands thoroughly. After that, he opened his private closet and threw his extra shirt - which he always had with him - to Sherlock. Without deigning to look at his friend, he then flipped through the file of his next patient. When Sherlock had finally buttoned his shirt, John pressed a small button.

“Mr. Rumpolt, please. ”

And then he waited for Sherlock to grab his dirty shirt and leave.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is going to be another quite dark chapter. Be warned.
> 
> And a happy new year to everyone! :)

It was late in the morning when Sherlock was standing in front of his mirror, scaning at himself critically. The suture on his shoulder was gradually healing, it looked almost aesthetic. John had done a good job, no question. But as it turned out, Sherlock's plan did not go as he had intended. The memories of John’s cool detachement made him shiver, and the defeats Sherlock had had to accept lately were clearly too many.

He had deliberately allowed himself a little rest over the last few days. First, to recover from the fight and his injuries, and second, to refocus. To make new plans. Regarding the smuggler and regarding John.

His mobile beeped, startling him out of his thoughts.

LONDON HAS ME BACK AGAIN :)

Molly. He smiled. Luckily, things were getting a little better on that front but Sherlock was far from feeling confident. They had kept in touch after he left Edinburgh the next morning but he couldn't tell at all how Molly would handle all the information he had promised her. It had been strange to be so close to her. So strange and yet so beautiful.

He liked to touch her. Her skin was so wonderfully soft and warm and Molly had been so responsive to his caress. But it had been extremely difficult for him to let it happen. Even though he trusted her completely. Even though he wanted to give her what she needed so much. Over and over again, he found himself standing in front of the same wall. A wall which he couldn’t tear down, remove stone by stone, or simply climb. A wall that seemed to be so inescapable, so terribly steadfast – an that for several years now. Sherlock doubted that he would ever overcome it. He was afraid of failure. And he had been failing quite a few times lately. But there was only one way out and he had to eventually go it. For himself. For Molly. For an _Us_.

GOOD. WE HAVE AN APPOINTMENT THIS ATERNOON. I’LL PICK YOU UP. SH

He had already arranged that appointment back in Edinburgh. Molly would have plenty of time to arrive at her flat and unpack her suitcase. Maybe even to get some rest, although she should actually be well rested after a week’s holiday. At least she didn’t have to fill the fridge anymore. Sherlock had already taken care of that.

APPOINTMENT? WHAT APPOINTMENT? - the prompt question followed.

I STILL OWE YOU SOMETHING. SH

He didn’t wait for her next message to his somewhat mysterious answer but threw the phone on his mattress instead. Then he turned to his wardrobe and picked a dark blue shirt. Something more light-colored would have only made the injury on his shoulder shine through. Furthermore, the dark stitch was piercing through the thin fabric. If Molly noticed it, she’d be alarmed immediately and he didn’t want that to happen under any circumstance. And he didn’t want to get distracted of something that could have been easily avoided either. Today‘s agenda required his full concentration.

***

Only when Sherlock was dragging Molly across Dr. Evans' driveway, he realized how much he’d missed the feeling of her hand in his. But now was not the time to enjoy the touch and get lost in sweet memories of their togetherness. He was nervous. Inwardly, of course. Outwardly, he was straight-faced - his façade working again.

"Sherlock, where are we?", Molly asked in confusion, though Sherlock knew that she hadn‘t missed the practice sign. He rang the doorbell.

"At my therapist," he replied briefly.

"Your what?"

Sherlock saved himself from repeating his words and simply looked firmly into her eyes, which were widened with astonishment. Fortunately, only seconds later, the door opened, relieving him of the need to explain himself for the time being.

„Sherlock, nice to see you!”, Dr. Evans welcomed him in a friendly manner despite her serious bun and her big glasses that made her appear so terribly uptight. The so well known scent of lemongrass was rising to his nose. What the hell was wrong with that woman? ”And you must be Molly, right? Dr. Evans. It's a pleasure to meet you.”

Molly looked as if a ghost had spoken to her just now. She was completely taken aback and stared at the doctor with her mouth open in surprise. A scenario like this was obviously beyond her imagination. Dr. Evans gave Sherlock a short and confused look but then she seemed to understand. He pushed Molly through the door and helped her out of the jacket, which he hung onto the coat rack along with his Belstaff. Dr. Evans led the two into her office, while Molly let her gaze wander over the premises.

Sherlock squeezed her hand to assure her that everything was okay, even though pretty much nothing was okay. Still, she smiled softly.

"Please, Molly, help yourself," Dr. Evans said, pointing to a carafe of water with two glasses next to it. "Or may I offer you a hot beverage instead? Tea or coffee perhaps?"

Sherlock sat down where he usually sat and waited patiently until all the pleasantries and greetings were off the table. Molly seemed to be gradually coming to terms with the situation and had regained her composure again. It won’t last long, he was fairly sure of that. Sherlock did his best to appear calm and relaxed. Under the surface, however, the waves of emotions were higher than he dared to admit. He had no clue how the following conversation would go. Whether he might even have to stop because he just couldn't. The only thing he could see at the moment was that awfully high and unconquerable wall.

„First of all, Molly, I would like to ask you to follow the conversation but without intervening. It’s important that you understand what’s going on inside Sherlock. We want to give him a space to let go and just be himself without being judged or pushed in a certain direction”, she said and gave Molly her soothing therapist smile.

Molly nodded silently and started fumbling nervously with her fingers as usual. She was sitting right next to him on the sofa, only half an arm’s length apart from each other, and Sherlock would have liked to take away her nervousness but he was much too tense himself to do so.

„Good. Sherlock, how has life been treating you since we last met?”, Dr. Evans finally asked and leaned back with a clipboard and pen. It was one of the opening questions she liked to ask so that the patients would not feel overwhelmed right away. Sherlock was sure it was of little therapeutic relevance.

„Well, Molly’s here. At least…”, he replied evasively and gave her a short side glance. Her posture was rigid and insecure. She didn’t know what to expect. But his answer was meant as he had said it. It was nice to have Molly around. To know that she was here. With him.

However, Dr. Evans was not satisfied with his answer and waited. "Better, I think”, he added quickly, hoping it would do.

„Why did you bring Molly?”

„Because I don’t want to run away anymore. Because she has a right to know why I am like this”, he said quietly. It felt strange to be watched like this. To show a side of him he’d never shown Molly before. He found it much easier with Dr. Evans because they were working together on a professional level. Distant from each other. She wasn’t a part of his life. But Molly was close to him. He wanted to be strong. Perfect. Sometimes even unapproachable. But by no means so… broken.

As always when he was sitting here on that bloody couch, all the self-doubts, the errors, the shortcomings seemed to approach him from every single corner of the room in order to attack and to crush him. He took a deep breath and stroked over his face. Then, as he did so often, he turned to the window and looked outside.

„Molly, please forgive me for being indiscreet. As far as I know, you were about to cut your connection to Sherlock, and you seem quite surprised to be here today. Are you even interested in hearing what Sherlock has to say to you?”

Terrified, Sherlock looked at Dr. Evans but she was completely focused on Molly. He hadn't thought of that at all. Yes, Molly had tried to back off, she had even refused to speak to him. But since their evening together in Scotland, it hadn't even occurred to him that she might still not be interested in a conversation like this. That she didn't want to be dragged into his abysses at all. Hadn't she even made it unmistakably clear to him that she wasn’t willing to put any more effort in it? Maybe she didn't want to come closer to him any longer because she was afraid of more pain and disappointment. Just like him. He had been an idiot to bring her here without telling her what this was about. Without giving her a chance to put in a veto.

„Uhm… yes. I think so…”, she finally said in a low voice and Sherlock sighed with relief. If he was seeing a psychologist regularly, he might as well take a course for improving his social skills…

„Very nice. Well, Sherlock”, Dr. Evans said, turning to him again. „Before we talk about the _why_ \- what do you think you are? Who you are?”

He swallowed. Although she was only repeating his words, she already stabbed deep into the core of the problem, making Sherlock squirm inwardly.

„Concerning Molly: Repulsing. Distant. Cool. You could also say: coward.” His last word was almost a whisper. He wanted to look into Molly’s face, he wanted to know how she reacted to his answer but he just couldn’t. What he said was in absolute contrast to the way he often acted up, presented himself, put himself into light. He felt like a hypocrite.

"Cowardice is defined as a fear that prevents an individual from facing a certain situation or from taking action. It is running away. What scares you?", the psychologist asked as she took notes. Sherlock had often tried to imagine how this session would be like. What he would say. How he would say it. What he had failed to imagine, however, was how it would _feel_. What was happening right now went too far already. It was somehow much too intimate. He had never been a person who opened up easily, not even a person who understood the meaning of opening up. And now, everything inside him seemed to convulse.

Sherlock put his elbow on the armrest and let his fingertips ran over his lips. It was like he was trying to shut his mouth and push back any response. He remained silent. The window - that was safe. Soothing.

Dr. Evans was waiting - he felt her gaze on his skin. He ignored her.

"Sherlock, you decided to come here today. Voluntarily. Why do you find it so difficult to talk?", she asked, now leaning forward. He could tell by the noises of the sofa cushions.

"Because… Because I don't want her to see me like this," he replied.

"Like what? A human being?", Dr. Evans fired back. It were these tiny duels, these little taunting statements, that often fascinated Sherlock because the psychologist was able to disarm him the way he tended to disarm others. Because it proved that they were on a par. And that she understood how he worked.

"Maybe I should…"

"No, Molly, you stay where you are," Sherlock cut her short, receiving a winning smile from Dr. Evans in return. "Closeness. Closeness scares me," he finally said. "It connects people – us – and... and drags me deeper. Emotions I can't control..."

He sounded like a dolt. His words clumsy and brokenly as those of a toddler. He would have rolled his eyes in annoyance if someone had talked to him like this.

"But there's more", the therapist said and Sherlock nodded silently. She knew anyway. „What is it?“, she pressed him as the words got stuck in his throat again. The conversation was tough, he knew it. But he couldn't help it right now.

"In our last conversation, you indicated that you can't allow physical closeness. Why not?", she eventually asked when he still didn't show the slightest inclination to respond.

“Because I don’t like it”, he said plainly and could hear how terrible his words sounded. "I mean, I can’t stand it.” Was that better?

Dr. Evans saved herself from asking any more questions. She obviously wanted him to keep talking on his own. He swallowed hard.

“When I was in hiding for two years, I broke the biggest criminal network known to that date. Until I was taken captive. In Serbia. They got me there... I was... Could we darken the room by any chance?”, he suddenly asked. He needed something to hide behind. Something that would give him some sort of protection. Something to stop him from feeling like living in a goldfish bowl.

The psychologist got up, lit a candle, and then lowered the shutters before turning off the light. Sherlock had no idea what the sparse candlelight was for. Was he supposed to feel more comfortable now?

"Go on. Take all the time you need“, his therapist said into the silence and Sherlock nodded. He didn't know if either of them could even see it. The images immediately came back to his mind. The dirty and dark basement. All the equipment. His dungeon. The isolation.

"It was so cold. So terribly cold," he began to utter what he had never uttered before. He was somewhere between consciousness and his mind palace. Somewhere where he had to combine both of it. The memories with the talking.

He had been frozen to the bone. In his cell with no windows. There had been nothing but bare concrete floor. No blanket, let alone a bed or a prison bunk. Sleeping had been inconceivable under these circumstances. Either because he was so damn cold or because every muscle in his body was aching on that hard ground. In the first few nights, he had not had a clue how bad the pain was going to be. If so, he would have made better use of the opportunity to rest, and would probably have even been grateful for it.

„They tortured me”, he said quickly, pushing the words over the edge before he could stammer again like a sublime idiot.

It went completely silent in the room. Dr. Evans couldn’t write down anything due to the lack of light but he didn’t hear anything else either, as if both women were holding their breath. Not even a clock was ticking. He didn’t know if it soothed his nerves or if it made him feel even more unsettled.

“I’m not even sure what they wanted from me or what organisation these guys belonged to. I guess they thought I was a spy. Anyway, they were after some sort of information. And to get that, they would have stopped at nothing. Do you actually know what you can do with a knife? You’d be surprised”, it burst out of him.

And then it felt like a dam inside him was breaking. The isolated memories, which had come to surface from time to time, suddenly turned into a hectic, overwhelming film. It was exactly what he had always feared. The images, the sounds, the sensations collapsed like a huge wave above of his head so that he could hardly control them anymore. He got hot and cold at the same time, his pulse quickened within seconds and his hands started trembling. Now, as he could no langer stare out of the window, he looked at the candle, whose flame hardly flickered.

Good. That was good.

He forced himself to take some deep breaths. He’d make it. He could do it. For Molly. For himself.

“The Serbs were masters at what they did. They were beating and stabbing and kicking and cutting without ever critically injuring me. My life was probably never at stake. But they made sure that I felt closer to death than to life. And one of them – Sergei was his name – was also skilled at white torture. He liked to combine physical and psychological torment. He was different from the others. They were all brutal and merciless, but he -- he enjoyed it. In fact, I think it turned him on”, Sherlock continued his monologue. The fear that had been his ever-lasting companion back then was silently creeping through his body again - along with the feeling of disgust.

Sergei’s appearance had been as repulsive as his actions. He was missing an eye and several fingers. His face had been terribly disformed and covered with scars that could only have come from a fire. He didn’t have any hair but a disgustingly smug smile.

“Will you tell us what he did to you?”, Dr. Evans asked apparently calmly but her tension didn't go unnoticed by Sherlock. He was fairly sure that she’d never had a case like this before.

“Beating a person with a cane until the skin burst, or cutting patterns into it with a knife that is too blunt, makes a huge mess, you know. Therefore, it's the best to tie up the victim naked and then pour an ice-cold bucket of water over him. Not only does it destroy you physically but also mentally. Especially when they don't let you use the toilet either. I peed myself like a two-year-old as blood was running down my legs.”

And as his tears were dropping on the floor. Along with the saliva that ran out of his mouth uncontrollably. Everything had suddenly become so irrevelvant. He had just been a miserable picture of body fluids. The only thing missing was the sweat. He had been so cold. Always so damn cold.

Sherlock suddenly heard a quiet weeping. He had almost completely forgotten about Molly and was now worried that his words had been to much for her to take. But that was him. That’s why they were here. So that she could understand.

“Have you been sexually abused?”, the therapist asked her very much predictable question.

“Yes and no”, he answered. Molly next to him sobbed. She was so empathetic that she did not just understood the meaning of his words but also felt the pain he was going through right now. She suffered with him. Fascinating and shocking at the same time.

“They never raped me. Not in the narrower sense. But I was touched. Exposed. Humiliated. And they never missed an opportunity to let me know that they would. That they were prepared to do so. That there were enough volunteers just waiting for me to lie on the ground, broken and whining and ready for them to...“ He stopped. His mind was already providing the scenario all too vividly. There was no need to go further into detail.

“What happens when Molly gets close to you?”, Dr. Evans now asked, obviously trying to adjust the focus on the problem in hand again before he could get lost in the stream of those memories.

“Not what's supposed to happen”, he whispered. And all of a sudden, he was so sorry that he had always made Molly feel like it was her fault. Or that it was a lack of affection. It had nothing to do with her. She could read him better than anyone else – why didn’t she see that there was more?

"What happens when Molly gets close to you?", Dr. Evans repeated the question.

"I... I don't know," Sherlock replied insecurely.

"Then why don't you try?"

He had no doubt that the psychologist already knew the answer to that question. It was the same game they always played. Sherlock was supposed to say it out loud - and in this case, close the circle. The same question had already been raised at the beginning.

"Because I'm scared," he finally confessed. Yes, Sherlock Holmes was scared. He broke out in a sweat, his hands shaking like those of a kid reciting a poem in front of the class - just by the thought of what Molly might cause when she touched him. What gates, he had so carefully kept closed, she could open again.

Again, they seemed to be patiently waiting for him to continue speaking – the silence hanging in the room almost unbearable. Only Molly's sobs had become louder again.

"I'm scared of the pictures. In my head. Of flashbacks. Me, in front of Sergei who is giving me his dirty laugh. I get reminded of Serbia every day. Every time I stand before my mirror. Every time I shower. I don't even dare to touch myself - to touch the scars. I can't stand it. I just hope the hot water will do its job and the towel take care of the rest," he said, and now it wasn't just his hands shaking. His whole body was close to freak out. As was his mind. He was close to that abyss again which he knew but whose dimensions took his breath away.

“I never rejected you, Molly. I rejected myself, I...“, he began without finishing his sentence. He pressed the palms of his hands on his eyelids as if he could withhold the signs of his weakness and his injuries. Molly’s warm and soft body instantly wrapped around his. She pulled him into her arms, held him tight, ran her fingers through his curls, and he just let it happen. He didn’t even know if it was her sobbing that shook him or if it was his own. He was hanging somewhere between space and time with no solid ground under his feet.

How the hell could she accept him like that? Why was she still with him, holding him, comforting him? He was a wreck. What she was supposed to do was to take to her heels and find someone who could give her stability. Which was a tower of strength rather than such a weak and emotional mess.

Sherlock silently reached for her hand and squeezed it gently, as if he wanted to make sure that she'd stay. Her fingerstips immediately dug into the back of his hand. That moment was a gift. Hidden in the dark and yet so intimate. So... healing.

“How are you feeling right now, Sherlock?”, Dr. Evans asked softly. It was the question he always hated the most. Often he just didn’t know, couldn’t name his feelings.

“Empty, I think. Vulnerable, maybe. And... weak.”

“That was far from being weak, Sherlock. Opening up and entrusting oneself to somebody takes courage. Especially with such a story”, the psychologist explained and Sherlock sighed inwardly. That woman must be blind...

“What happened in Serbia is something we’re going to deal with in our following sessions, Sherlock. But for now, I’ll leave you two alone. Take the time you both need. I don’t have any other appointments today. If you need me, just call”, she said and Sherlock heard more than he saw that she got up and left the room.

He probably wouldn’t have been able to go any further anyway. Not today. What had been dragged so violently to the surface was overwhelming enough, and he also wanted to save Molly from any more details. He had said what he wanted to say to her.

Now all he could do was hope that she would understand.


	12. Chapter 12

_There’s so much I need to tell you. But not here. Not now. I need London to do that._

When Molly had heard these words in the hotel room for the first time she didn't take them seriously. She hadn't even been able to understand their meaning entirely. What had actually been behind them now made her feel torn and her heart bleed. Everything had gotten worse – especially when she thought it impossible.

Being able to cope with one’s own pain was one thing. To see Sherlock – this tough, distant and eternally unapproachable detective – like this was something completely different. It shook her and did something to her that she could hardly put into words.

Her tears dripped silently onto his dark curls as she let her fingers slide through them. His hair was strong, yet wonderfully soft. Reassuringly, she patted his head without worrying if she went too far by doing so. She just couldn't help it. The normal Sherlock would probably never have allowed it. But now, here in this dark room, he was a different one. He was wounded. Broken. Devastated. And too overwhelmed by what had just happened. He couldn't fight it. And he didn't even want to.

Molly didn't know if he was crying. He was breathing erratically, his body still shaking but it might have also come from all the energy he needed to hold back. Or to gather himself. She said nothing and remained silent. She wanted to give him exactly the space Dr. Evans had talked about but she felt the need to hold him at least. To let him know she was there. For him. As she always had been.

The fact that he had reached for her hand and was clinging onto it made every further word redundant. His fingertips were digging into the back of her hand that it almost hurt but she didn’t complain. If that’s what he needed to feel a little better right now, then she wouldn’t pull away from him. By no means.

It had been so damn hard for him to talk. The pain had been written all over his face and she had been able to feel it even after the light had been switched off. It had been unbearable. She had suffered with him – very close to yell at the psychologist to end the session immediately. All she had wanted to do was moving closer to him. And yet she had been totally aware that he would never have gone that far if she had done so.

_I never rejected you, Molly. I rejected myself._

It was a revelation that went deeper than all the horrible things he had talked about before and it caused a never-ending stream of tears. She hadn't had the slightest idea of the self-doubt he was struggling with. That he was nowhere near who he claimed to be. At least not always. Apparently, even a person like him could be brought to his knees. That someone had tried and succeeded hit her on too many levels.

„Mycroft was late. Far too late", Sherlock eventually said quietly, staring into the candle flame as he had done before. Molly could see the reflection in his eyes. Apparently, the dance of the little fire calmed him down a bit. That was good, wasn't it?

"And when he finally got there, he hasn't done anything for what had felt like ages. He was just watching and once he even encouraged these guys to continue their torment. To push me further. He explained that he hadn't had a choice since he wanted to keep up his appearance", he added and snorted contemptuously.

Molly did not understand which fight was still going on between the two brothers but she slowly got an idea of it. She had never liked Mycroft very much and now she even hated him. It was hard to imagine the humiliation and shame felt by a person who was tied, helpless and naked and supposed to take everything that others had in mind for him. It obviously cracked even the hardest nut. If Mycroft cared so much for his little brother, how had he been able to stand the sight of him? The screams that must have escaped his throat?

Molly tended to have a deep understanding for everything and everyone. But this was going beyond a joke. Even she had her limits. “I think just anything I would like to say right now is more than inappropriate”, Molly replied after a short break. „I’m too angry. And too shaken. ”

She was perfectly aware that in a job like Sherlock's, one would better not be squeamish. That one got into fights, received threats or had to go beyond limits. That one was constantly in danger. In the end, it wasn't surprising at all that Sherlock had decided to be so distant, detached and obsessed with facts. Anything else would have destroyed him mentally. It was a price that he wasn't willing to pay.

Molly was disgusted by those people out there who were trained to play with that attitude. That they made it their business to destroy another individual in such a way. Sherlock was often arrogant – always putting people's noses out of joint and showing off his talents. But in the end, he was a good man on the right side. He just didn't deserve to experience what he had experienced. No one had.

"I'm sorry", he suddenly said and Molly didn't know what he was referring to with that statement. Was he sorry that she felt the way she was feeling right now? That he had rejected her so may times? That he had brought her here without telling her what to expect?

"No, _I_ am sorry, Sherlock. That all of this happened to you. It... breaks my heart," she replied, almost waiting for him to pull away from her since he surely couldn't stand the closeness and the pain anymore. But he stayed, still running his fingertips over the back of her hand.

"No. It still goes boom-boom boom-boom. I can hear it," he whispered, tapping his finger against her chest. Molly smiled.

She would have loved to sit on that couch in the dark forever. What Sherlock had shown her today would not have been possible in daylight. He'd said it himself: he didn't want her to see him like this. But she was infinitely grateful to him that he had done it after all. It was the greatest compliment he could ever have paid her. And an act of faith, though she was no longer sure she even deserved it.

She noticed that the shaking had stopped. His breathing had returned to normal and her tears had dried up as well. It would be all right. They could do it, couldn't they?

"I'm going to have nightmares," he said after a while of silence. "I always have after these sessions."

"Then why don't you come over to my place? We could cook something tonight, my fridge is well stocked," she replied and could hear him smile. And that felt so good after all those exhausting and deep conversations today.

"You don't have to do this," he said unexpectedly, using the same words Molly had used after both of them had woken up next to each other in Edinburgh. Did he have the same intention as she had had back then? Did he want to make sure that she didn't do it for the wrong reasons? Out of pity, maybe?

„What if I want to?“, she asked just as he had done. Because it was exactly what she wanted right know. She refused to let this moment pass and lose him in this soft emotional state. She wanted him to know that it was okay to be weak. To suffer. To feel helpless, vulnerable, desperate. It wasn’t nice but it was okay. It was life. And she wanted to let him know that he wasn’t alone in this world.  
  
„It’s okay then, I guess“, he replied and Molly breathed a kiss onto his curls. She closed her eyes and once again sucked in his scent, his closeness and the warmth of his body. If they wanted to leave this place, he would have to pull away from her some time. And she knew that this was going to happen soon.  
  
„You said that you are scared to get close to somebody. I’m close to you right now. As close as never before“, she whispered, patiently waiting for his reaction. She totally got what he had been trying to say. Which problem he was struggling with. Nevertheless it made her feel uncomfortable that he didn’t enjoy her touches. That it caused emotions and memories which it shouldn’t cause. But he seemed to be okay with it at that very moment. Even more so, he seemed to need it. There was hope, wasn’t it?  
  
„Hhhmmm“, was all he replied while she was still playing with his hair. The candle was almost burned down. The wax had been dripping onto the small plate underneath which prevented the table to be ruined. The air in the room had become unpleasantly warm and stuffy but she didn’t mind as long as she was still able to savour every minute to the full. She had lost all sense of time and space. Maybe this session has lasted for 30 minutes only but it could also be two hours. The spare light of the candle was hardly enough to make out the door. Under normal circumstances it would have felt a little creepy. But together with Sherlock, it was exactly what she needed right now.  
  
„It’s fine as long as you don’t touch me _there_ “, he eventually added.  
  
„Where is _there_?“, Molly asked confused but Sherlock now backed off to get up. He seemed to have regained his composure again but Molly didn’t know if she was happy or sad about it. Everything was so paradoxal.  
  
He remained silent but reached out for her hand to help her up. The darkness didn’t seem to bother him at all and he confidently guided her towards the door.  
  
„Wait, Sherlock. Just... wait“, Molly said who wasn’t ready yet to get back to normal and to the daylight. She wanted to say something before they would leave the darkness behind. Sherlock stopped and as far as she could tell his body was turned to her. Carefully, she reached out to touch his face und to pull him closer. She wanted to feel his lips on hers, she wanted to kiss him, hold him, touch him. Sherlock returned the kiss, shy and soft but not desperate anymore. Then he whispered a quiet thank-you before he pushed down the door handle. He took her hand and nodded, that much she was able to see. When he opened the door, Molly got blinded by the light from the hallway although it wasn’t too bright.  
  
She knew that the magical and vulnerable moment was now over. Sherlock would stay with her overnight. But he would also retreat into silence as he always did. And she would accept it just as she always did.

***

It was late at night and Sherlock was staring at the ceiling which looked so different from his bedroom ceiling at 221 b Baker Street. There were niches in Molly's living room that cast shadows. The light of a street lamp fell on his face every time he turned his head. What others would have found annoying was a welcome distraction for him. The sofa beneath him felt also different and strange. The one at his place was wonderfully soft, the leather smooth and adjusted to his body due to countless nights he had spent on it. Molly's sofa, on the other hand, was rough and a little harder but more even and slightly wider. Also something he could focus on. That was good.

He had tried sleeping next to Molly in the first place. Her presence always tended to help him somehow. He wasn't alone. But unfortunately far too agitated to get some rest. Sleeplessly, he had tossed and turned in bed. Molly had been incredibly tired and yawned every other second until she eventually fell asleep - only to wake up again when he couldn't stop moving restlessly beside her. Not a single complaint had escaped her mouth. When he repeated the game for the fourth time, she had just laid a hand on his shoulder which made him get up abruptly to head for the couch without any explaination. Because he couldn't stand her sympathy anymore.

She tried so hard to be considerate to him and not to push him any further. She was gentle. So attentive and her gaze so sensitive. It was unbearable. It wasn’t her fault. Sherlock knew that he basically hated himself for what he had become tonight. All those complicated little emotions. He felt incredibly embarrassed and didn't know how to deal with it. How to look her in the eye again. He was afraid that he’d destroyed her image of Sherlock Holmes for good. She now probably saw him with different eyes – and in a way he didn’t like at all. And he had the same problem as always when he closed his lids. Pictures flickering through his mind that he had buried so deep inside his mind palace. Pictures he didn’t want to deal with any longer.

But he didn't have any cocaine here. He only had the living room ceiling and the strange couch under his butt. His gaze fell on Molly's unmissably large television. Sherlock didn't watch TV. It was driving him crazy. Even now, he didn't feel like zapping through the channels but he knew the TV set came with all the bells and whistles. He searched for the remote and turned it on. Then he switched to YouTube and searched for a playlist of violin music. It wasn't the same but it was enough to calm his tense nerves a little and make his loud thoughts quiet down a bit.

And at some point, without him realizing it, his eyelids dropped. He was too exhausted from everything that had happened today. He longed for some sleep. And now, his body was just taking what it needed so desperately...  
  
  



	13. Chapter 13

When Molly got up the next morning, she found Sherlock sleeping on her couch. He looked so peaceful. Those regular and constant breaths. His relaxed facial muscles. That eyelids that were no longer fluttering so excitedly due to his rapid thoughts. She wished him a peaceful rest – both mentally and physically. He needed it badly.

Still, it hurt her that he had left her alone in the middle of the night. Molly's gut feeling had been right – Sherlock behaved just as she had expected. As she'd known him for years. He was isolating himself, was silent and distant as ever. Yesterday evening had been difficult and uneasy even though Molly deliberately let him have his space and quiet. Sherlock was probably more than fine with the silence but for Molly it was nothing but nerve-racking. And she didn't know what to do about it. Having a talk with him was out of question since it would only have made the situation worse.

The intimacy and closeness of last afternoon almost felt like a dream to her. Even more so, she couldn't get rid of the feeling that they would never get anywhere with their weird kind of relationship. They were going in circles, not making any progress.

Was she possibly too hard on him? Yesterday had been so different and exhausting. But so special as well - in a very sad way...

Apparently, it hadn't been a good idea to leave Dr. Evans without talking to her once more. They could’ve discussed how to deal with each other now. Could have defined what was okay and what was not. Instead, Molly was now standing in her bathroom, lost in thoughts (just like she had been for half the night) while she was having her morning wash. With that uncomfortable feeling of insecurity somewhere inside her belly.

That was the stuff that cancer was made of - but not love.

She could hardly bear her sad look in the mirror herself. After she was finished, she took a book off her shelf as quietly as possible to not wake Sherlock and tiptoed her way back to her bedroom. She was flipping through the pages more than she read them but what else could she have been doing to kill time? The sunlight, which was falling through her large bedroom window, was enough so that she didn’t need to turn on another lamp. The clear sky promised glorious weather which cheered her up a bit. At least, it helped to not get drowned in the sadness.

Unbelievable that her vacation in Scotland had come to an end only a day and a half ago. The rest and the satisfaction after a few days off at another location had vanished in no time. Molly felt as if she needed another week’s vacation to get her life back together. And Sherlock’s.

She sighed.

It was hard for her to focus on the chapter she had flipped open. With difficulty, she managed to work her way through seven pages, in which she had to read almost every other paragraph two, if not three times. This wasn’t a time killer. This was pure provocation of frustration. Annoyed, she threw the book next to her on the mattress and stroked over her face. Then she got up, went over to the wardrobe and picked fresh clothes for the day. Her bedroom door was wide open and in the corner of her eye she noticed a sudden movement of Sherlock’s shadow. And heard the rustling of his blanket. He obviously was about to wake up.

She tried to catch a glimpse of him but the couch was too far away from the door for her to see. Shortly afterwards, his movements were joined by sounds she didn’t understand. Maybe it was a quiet murmur, maybe it was a moan.

With bare feet, she pitter-pattered over the floorboards. He had announced that he was going to have nightmares and Molly had promised herself to be with him when it happened. She'd probably missed a few already and felt like having let him down, even if he wouldn't see it that way.

As it tured out, nothing had happended as planned, really...

His peaceful expression from an hour ago was completely gone. His eyes were closed but his brows knitted. He made quite a lot of noises that Molly couldn't pin down. His arms and legs twitched as if he was trying to fight someone off, then he threw his head from one side to the other. His forehead was shining with sweat.

  
  


One didn't have to be a detective to figure out what was going on here.

Molly walked over to him and gently touched his cheek. Immediately, he pushed her hand away and woke with a start.

“It’s all right, Sherlock. You’re with me”, Molly said gently after backing off in surprise of his reaction. Nevertheless, she gave him a cheerful smile but he just looked at her in confusion, trying to find out where he actually was. Then he nodded and sank back onto the pillow, looking up to the ceiling. And from one second to the other he seemed to be incredibly angry. Molly could see his face darken. And she had no idea what triggered it. Was he angry because she woke him? Was he angry at himself because he couldn’t do anything about those dreams? Did he get sick of being haunted by them?

“I’ll make us coffee”, she said carefully but Sherlock was upright with a dart before Molly even had a chance to get to her feet herself.

“Don't bother. I gotta go to the National Library anyway. My... my case”, he replied tersely, darting a glance to the clock on her wall. This was happening way too fast!

He disappeared into the bathroom without so much as looking at her as if she were a bad one-night stand, which he had to get away from in a hurry. Molly was dumbstruck and wrapped her arms around her torso. She was shivering and that had little to do with the temperatures.

Lethargically, she went into her bedroom to put on a sweater nevertheless, then got back into the kitchen and prepared a breakfast she really had no appetite for. It was more an attempt to keep her busy than to satisfy hunger.

A few moments later, Sherlock came out of the bathroom again and looked almost as immaculate as ever, only his shirt and trousers showed a few more wrinkles.

He gave her a long look, which Molly ignored as best she could. She didn't want to show her vulnerability right now. Her insecurity. And the anger - it seriously started to piss her off to do everything always his way.

He came over to her to stroke over her hair before breathing a soft kiss on it.

„Thank you," he said.

Molly just nodded tiredly.

And then he was gone, leaving her behind as ever.

She sighed once more.

***

Sherlock’s already unpromising research at the National Library (which had not been a lie but in a way a pretense) had been as disappointing as his behaviour at Molly’s this morning. He had tried to get rid of the unbearable sentimentality by keeping his mind busy with facts ond details concerning his current case but had failed miserably. Of course, it hadn't gone unnoticed by him how much he had hurt Molly. Again. But he couldn’t do anything about it. Not at that very moment. Not with those feelings. It was like suppressing a laughter - it only got worse the harder one tried. It just didn’t work. And he needed a certain distance and objectivity to function again. But neither of these things had happened so far.

He looked longingly at the little box on his mantelpiece as he returned to Baker Street after his unsuccessful work. No, he wouldn't do that. He didn't want it - for Molly. He could do better. He would do everything better this time. Okay, except for the morning. He could do a lot but he couldn't turn back time.

He reopened the door that he had closed just a second ago and called downstairs.

"Mrs. Hudson! Tea!"

Then he headed for the bathroom, took off his clothes, and jumped into the tub to have a quick shower. He would do it the way he always did. He would get himself and his thoughts back under control again.

As the hot water was running down his skin, he kept his eyes fixed on the shower curtain. He heard the clinking of teacups and Mrs. Hudson's remarks about the mess in his livingroom and his bad manners.

Yes, that was what he needed. The old order. The same repetitive procedures. His apartment. The things he was familiar with to be able to cope with the unknown as well.

He got out of the shower, dried himself, put on his sleeping clothes even though it was much too early and threw over his dressing gown. As he was about to pour himself a cup of tea, his eyes fell on the freshly washed and neatly ironed shirt on John's old armchair. Mrs. Hudson was a sweetheart indeed! Maybe this would help to get back to normal. To the order in which John was still - or again - his friend.

He thought for a while.

It was common knowlegde that he was the king of social incompetence. But he didn't know what to do with that information. Analysis was and remained just the first step towards a solution. But maybe his strategic approach could help him here as well. After all, there was still someone else besides John who was excellent at things like these and had always wished to be a part of his life...

Sherlock grinned confidently. Then he reached for his phone.

***

He was used to lurking behind dark corners for criminals or informants of any kind. His homeless network often congregated in extremely shady areas. He had lost any sense for creepy things over time, especially since he knew how to defend himself. Bedraggled buildings or areas full of muck couldn't change it any more.

Nevertheless, a strange feeling crept through his stomach as he was sneaking over the cemetery a few days later to find a place to hide. Was it his moral understanding, which had grown slowly over the years, that was overtaking him? Or was it because of what was waiting for him here?

He didn’t know if it would work this time. Molly had shown her sensitivity and empathy countless times but when she suggested to stray over the cemetery like a mangy cat, he had doubted her mental health for a brief moment. He had even wondered if this was any sort of revenge for his behavior the other morning, but this would not have been the Molly he knew. Under normal circumstances. But she had made it pretty clear in Edinburgh that she was getting fed up and who could tell if he had meanwhile provided the famous straw that made broke the camel's back.

Well, Sherlock’s didn't.

Their current communication only happened via text messages, which made it even harder for him to recognize ironic nuances between the lines. So all that he had in the end was trial and error.

Unfortunately, the weather didn’t really play into his hands today. It was very cold and the dark clouds on the horizon were definitely about to bring rain. He couldn’t stay here forever. If it began to pour down – the sky was almost black – then he could kill himself without getting one step further in his plan.

Sherlock pulled his beanie deeper over both ears, wrapped the scarf a little tighter around his neck, and turned the collar of his coat up. His hands were warmed by his black leather gloves. He could cope with the cooler temperatures. But not with cold wetness. Wetness was always the enemy, also when it came to bare survival training. Wetness made the body go hypothermic. Wetness made one ill. Wetness demoralized. Rain was only nice while staring out of living room window with a violin in one hand and a hot cup of tea on the table.

He waited under a tree for about half an hour, hidden by two large headstones when John finally approached his wife's grave with Rosie in the buggy and a flower arrangement in his hand. There seemed to be something magical about cemeteries. The eternal peace and finality crept into one's limbs as soon as one walked through the great gate or caught sight of the chapel.

John's military goose step only seemed to exist in another world. He moved much more quietly and carefully here, as if he might unintentionally wake the dead with too loud steps. Even Rosie, who usually squeaked so happily in her buggy or once in a while cried in a tantrum, was comparatively calm and pointed to the grave with her little fingers.

She knew exactly who was lying here.

Sherlock had never been here since Mary's death. The guilt resting on his shoulders managed to paralyze him every time he considered it. But he knew that there was a picture of her on the grave. Presumably John renewed it regularly when it was faded by the sun. Or maybe Mrs. Hudson took care of it. Or Molly. But it had always been John’s desire to look Mary in the face when he visited her. And to make Rosie understand that her mom was living here. The mom who had loved her so much.

John removed the old flowers and then placed the arrangement in front of the headstone. He was so different when he felt unobserved. More real, more vulnerable. Just like Sherlock when his demons were following him again. Each person tried to hide, each person took care of his inner life. Everyone was playing various roles in the end. The role as an employee, as a son, as a grandpa to his grandchild. As a partner. The real self remained hidden far too often. Because there was too much pain in this world. Too much abuse. Too much suffering. People were broken – each in their own way.

John took his daughter out of the buggy and let her down in front of the grave while he crouched down behind her, quietly saying something in her ear that Sherlock didn't understand. Sherlock knew this was his moment. The moment when he could come closer unnoticed to heighten the drama of his performance.

And yet, for the first time in his life, he felt like he was ruining an intimate moment between the two of them when he started moving. With quiet steps, he walked across the trimmed lawn and then crouched down next to John.

"'Lock!", Rosie exclaimed, grinning widely as she caught sight of him.

"Mummy!", she then said, pointing to the picture. Sherlock just gave her a nod and gently stroked the little girl's head. He didn't know what to say. He realized once again that not only had he taken Mary's life but also Rosie's mother. And John his wife. It had been such a dark day back then. And up til now, he blamed himself for it. To this day, Mary regularly appeared in his mind without being asked, having conversations with him. To this day, he still worked out the agonizing guilt.

John just looked at Sherlock silently. Here, at this place, he seemed a lot less harsh and angry and disappointed. He was sad and his jaw muscles tense, as if he had to hold back his emotions. Sherlock pulled a small box out of a plastic bag without saying anything and placed the flowers he had bought in the cemetry's shop next to the arrangement.

“Happy birthday, Mary”, he eventually said, and John quickly turned his gaze away. He knew Sherlock had never been here to lay down flowers. The gesture seemed to move him more than he was willing to let show. An imaginary Molly was suddenly standing next to Sherlock, pushing him tenderly and showing him the right direction.

„I’m sorry for what I said“, he murmured and broke the silence. Rosie pulled away from John and took a few steps towards him. He hadn’t seen the little girl for quite a long time and gave her a long hug. She was too young to understand what was going on but it didn’t bother. Quite the opposite, actually. Her childish babbling took the edge off.

„And I’m sorry for what I did. To your shoulder. With Molly...“, John replied after a while and dared to look him in the eye again.

„The suture was pretty good. I removed the stitches myself yesterday“, Sherlock said just to keep the conversation going. John smiled.

That was good. It felt right.

_Thanks Molly._

Then he grabbed the plastic bag again and handed it to John.

„Your Shirt“, he explained and John threw it into the buggy without taking a further look on it. It seemed that he hadn’t expected to see that piece of clothing ever again. Both of them got up and Sherlock took little Watson onto his arm. As it turned out, not all of his curls were covered by his beanie. Rosie reached for a strand of hair and pulled at it carefully.

John cleared his throat to bridge the silence that threatened to settle in once more. He buried his hands deep into his pockets. Then he asked, „So, you are on talking terms again?“

Sherlock couldn’t tell if he was seriously interested in the answer or if he was just trying to talk to him at all, so he went for a simple nod and saved himself circumlocutory words. Worried, he looked up to the sky.

„Good, Good“, John said rather tensed. „You shouldn’t leave it at that, Sherlock. Doing nothing but talking, I mean...“

He followed Sherlock eyes to the firmament. Those heavy clouds had become threateningly close and wind was pulling at their clothes.

„Is it the scars?“, he added and Sherlock felt like he must have got struck by the first lightning just now.

What the hell? Since when did they talk about things like these?

Sherlock gave John a serious look to silence him. He had several snappy remarks on the tip of his tongue but those would only have led the conversation in a direction that he had no intention to follow.

John seemed to notice that he had gone too far and cleared his throat again in embarrassment. The situation was at least as much inconvenient as it was for Sherlock.

„You’ve still got the opportunity to sort things out, you know...“, John said seemingly incoherent and looked back at the picture of his deceased wife. Then he took the small candle out of the glass container, lit it and put it back in its dry housing.

“All the best, Mary”, he said softly before turning away. The first raindrops were already landing on the buggy. John stored his shirt in the bottom compartment and got out the rain cover.

“Tell me, little Watson, how do you feel about a hot chocolate?”, Sherlock asked with a questioning side glance to John. The girl immediately clapped her hands excitedly. When her daddy remained silent and suppressed a soft smile, Sherlock put Rosie quickly in her comfy vehicle and left the cementry with John in a hurry – on the way to a café two streets over.

He had promised to do better this time, hadn't he?


	14. Chapter 14

Sherlock was probably acting far too methodical but somehow it was exactly what he needed to get himself and the situation back under control at the moment. It was as if he was working through checklists in his head, regaining his usual calm self by doing so. He had finally seen Rosie again after such a long time and had also managed to win her heart with a cup of hot chocolate and a cookie. Simple but effective. And he had been to Mary's grave after all those years, which had made him feel a bit uneasy for the time being but had given him some satisfaction in the end as well. Maybe even something like peace of mind. And in addition, he was working systematically on his case again by following a few promising hints. If he was lucky, he could even get John back on board to steady that cautiously regained companionship.

Basically, there was only his connection to Molly left to work on. The thin bond that threatened to break anytime.

That was his greatest project.

At least, he had given her a glimpse into his abysses and had kept in regular contact with her after his hastily leave instead of cutting himself off completely. Not perfect but better than what he normally would have done. It just wasn't enough. Not in the long run.

Sherlock took a generous sip of the tea Mrs. Hudson had brought upstairs about an hour ago. It was already too cool to enjoy but he didn't mind. Then he bit into one of her cookies, got up, fetched his coat, and ran downstairs.

He didn't have to wait long for a cab.

"To St. Bartholomeus Hospital," he said through the passenger window before opening the back door and jumping into the car.

It was early afternoon and the traffic was less heavy than at rush hour. They managed to make the trip in 20 minutes, which usually took more than half an hour. Sherlock looked at his watch. Thirteen minutes till the end of Molly's shift. He was going to make it in time easily.

Purposefully, he entered the hospital that he almost knew like a second home and headed for the labs.

"Ah, Mr. Holmes“, Mr. Richardson said, when he happened to bump into him for the second time. "Mrs. Hooper is back on duty."

Ah. As if he didn't know that already.

Sherlock gave him a friendly nod and pushed past him. It was the middle of the day and the surgery was in full swing, so there was a lot of hustle and bustle in the pathology as well. Sherlock saw Molly at first sight nevertheless. He would recognize her bouncing ponytail among thousands.

“The taxi is already waiting”, Sherlock said theatrically as he approached her. Molly was so absorbed in her work that she didn’t even notice him. She now looked up and frowned. Sherlock couldn’t tell what she was feeling when she caught sight of him. Maybe it was for the best...

“Sherlock!”, she said. ”What taxi?”

Her gaze went to the clock and then back to all the instruments on the table in front of her.

“Take your time”, he said and left the lab again. She couldn’t see his grin anymore. He loved it when he had the element of surprise on his side.

***

After about twenty minutes she had finally joined him in the cab and after another thirty minutes they had finally reached their destination. The delicate scent of her shower gel had lingered in Sherlock's nose throughout the whole ride, and he'd needed all his energy to fight back the image of her naked body in the shower and bury it deep down his subconscious. He'd better focus on her curious gaze, which downright euphorized him.

What he had in mind wasn't anything special. In fact, he even thought that a woman like Molly Hooper deserved better. But according to John's theory, shared quality time and undivided attention were of surprisingly high importance to the female sex. And John was quite experienced in things like these. At least far more than Sherlock...

"That's Queen's Wood", Molly noted as the cab stopped.

"Fancy a walk?", Sherlock asked, exiting the vehicle. After Molly got out as well, she looked at him as if he was silently asking if there was a hitch somewhere. Sherlock smiled softly and held out his hand to her without saying anything. When she grabbed it after some hesitation, he inwardly sighed in relief. When was the last time they had actually held hands like this?

That time before they had entered Dr. Evan's office didn't count. He had rather wanted to make sure that Molly didn't run away from him or fall down at the speed he had set. He'd only taken precautions, so to speak. But this - this was a touch that was meant to restore the bond between them. And a touch he could allow without his nerves going crazy. He had even left his leather gloves at home today since he wanted to feel her warmth and the life beneath her skin.

Silently, they entered the wooded area that was only a stone's throw away from the big city. The leaves rustled under their footsteps and a slight but cool wind gently blew over their exposed faces.

Molly had been silent for most of the ride, and even now she didn't say a word. Sherlock was genuinely confused. She was neither extroverted nor chatty, but she had never endured a state like this for very long. Unpleasant silence usually made her nervous, and Sherlock didn't know right now if she was seeking the quiet or if his presence made her uncomfortable. He preferred not to think about the latter. That would have dangerously weakened his decision to do better this time since he wasn't ready for another salvo of pain and self-doubts. For feeling paralyzed again. He didn't want to be paralyzed anymore. He wanted to act and do the right things – just as he always did with his cases. Purposefully and without fear.

Should he perhaps break the silence? But what could he say? Probably something harmless as to not endanger the shyly accepted togetherness, or did she feel the need to know more of what had come to light with Dr. Evans? Did he perhaps need to apologize again in person for his behavior the other morning? He hadn't the slightest idea. All of these options seemed both right and wrong at the same time. How the hell was he supposed to know what-

A ball rolled across the path and stopped right in front of his feet, interrupting his stream of thoughts. Shortly after, a little boy shot out of the bushes. Quick-witted, Molly stepped aside and kicked the ball back without letting go of Sherlock's hand. She smiled kindly.

Finally! Her tender, pretty smile, which has become so rare lately. He could watch her like this for ages. He wanted her to be okay. Not sad and hurt and disappointed.

The boy ran towards the ball in his thick rainsuit, squeaking. He was maybe three or four years of age at most. Sherlock looked around and discovered a mother sitting on a bench, typing on her phone. There was a balance bike standing next to her. She didn’t seem to notice where her son was, nor did she take the time to play with him.

Sherlock let go of Molly’s hand to run after the ball. He was fine with breaking out of his comfort zone, if he could provide a bit of easiness for a change. Even if it happened in a rather silly way... The tot got to the ball quicker and looked at the approaching detective a little confused. Only when Sherlock gave him an encouraging nod, he grinned widely and kicked the ball which was rolling in the completely wrong direction.

As Sherlock started moving, the boy chuckled joyfully and ran after him. And just a few seconds later, all three were standing in the middle of the path, kicking the ball to one another. The little boy was so happy and clumsy that a wide grin brightened Molly's face, only topped by a soft giggle every now and then.

Something inside Sherlock breathed a sigh of relief, as if his inner child had been longing for things like these for quite some time. It was irrational. A waste of time, really. And yet so wonderful. Because he didn't have to think anything through and analyze it when playing with a child. He just had to be there. In the here and now.

When the kid kicked the ball again, playing it back to Molly, Sherlock ran and chased it. When Molly realized what he was up to, she started running towards the ball herself, trying to block him. But Sherlock was a man who, as a child, had been forced to play such banal and ordinary games as football from time to time. Besides, he was a man who usually got what he wanted.

Molly was panting now but did surprisingly well until he faked a left motion. He slid his right foot forward and made her lose the ball she'd protected so carefully. Molly, who obviously didn’t want to give up so quickly, turned and ran after him. Her boots with that little heels were not made for sporting activities such as this, so she slipped away on the damp ground and would have fallen if Sherlock hadn’t prevented it at the last moment.

"We don't want to ruin your jeans, do we?" he said, noticing that he was a little out of breath himself. Molly gave him a grateful nod, then looked him in the eye challengingly and took up the chase again. This time, she had the element of surprise on her side and played the ball back to its actual owner before Sherlock was near her. The boy had been joined by his mother in the meantime, who was smiling politely. She was the one who also declared the game over. Sherlock wondered how long it had taken her to realize that her son was playing with complete strangers. The little boy was anything but happy that the fun had come to an end and began to protest loudly. And his mother's patience didn't seem to last very long.

“Look”, Sherlock said, taking the ball into his hands. The boy immediately became quiet and watched him with interest. "I’m going throw the ball so you can chase it with your balance bike. What do you think?”

The boy smiled and grabbed his bike immediately. Sherlock let the ball roll over the wide path and the kid enthusiastically took up pursuit. His mother quickly followed him and Sherlock realized that she was probably facing a rather hectic and exhausting journey back home.

Molly's let her hand slide silently back into his as she watched the two of them leave. The smile was gone but she got a glint in her eyes that hasn't been there before.

"Everything seems to be so easy for children," she suddenly said. "In summer they love to go swimming, in autumn they collect chestnuts, in winter they make snow angels and bake cookies. There is not just good and bad but also all the shades in between and it's totally okay."

Sherlock looked at her in irritation. He had the feeling that she was trying to tell him something between the lines but unfortunately he was even worse at metaphors than he was at direct dialogues.

"I-I don't quite follow...", he said truthfully before he could reply something rash and hurt her again.

"Neither do I," Molly replied a little mysteriously when she eventually looked him right in the eye. Her beige knit cap covered her hair and the matching scarf her small, narrow mouth. The only visible thing of her face were her innocent eyes and her nose that had turned red due to the cold. If the situation hadn't suddenly been so awkward, Sherlock would have almost called her cute. Almost - after all, he was a Holmes.

He didn't feel like having another deep and complicated conversation. Not here. Not after the fun they had just had together. Something rustled behind Molly. Probably a small animal because Sherlock couldn't make out anything specific but instead his gaze inevitably fell on a tree standing in the thicket. It was widely branched and supported a wooden structure about ten feet high.

Without an explanation, he dragged Molly with him, who immediately put in her veto.

"Sherlock!"

„Come", was all he said, not being deterred at all. He had to be in the lead. Like he had been in Edinburgh. He had to have the feeling of being in control of the situation, even though he probably wasn't.

At first, he thought the structure was a tree house that was past its prime. On closer inspection, however, it turned out that it had merely not been completed. The wood was not weathered yet and seemed to be in good condition.

"You're not going up there, are you," Molly said in disbelief as Sherlock put his foot on the first branch.

"I'm not going to sit down with you on an old park bench by the duck pond like we're one of those ordinary couples in desperate need of a clarifying relationship talk," he said, sounding far more confident than he felt. If he decided to make everything better, then he would still do it his way: extravagant and provocative.

Molly looked around the area awkwardly, clearly unwilling to follow. What she wanted even less, however, was to stamp in front of a tree, indecisive and lost. She sighed. And Sherlock smiled.

He knew she would make the climb. Tree houses were usually built for children and the branches were close together. Any ladder would have been more dangerous.

Within a few seconds, he was standing on the sturdy wooden slats that were only joined by one single wall instead of four. He offered Molly his hand but she opted for the branch right next to it. Was that supposed to mean anything?

From up here, they had a wonderful view on a small pond and a forest glade on which some more children were playing and even trying to fly kites. Molly sat down right at the edge, swinging her legs. Apparently, she wasn't afraid of heights at all. Perhaps, fear of heights seemed as irrational to her as to Sherlock. Why should one be afraid of heights? Moriarty had put it so aptly back then: it was not the fall that killed. It was the landing.

Sherlock sat down right behind Molly, wrapping his arms around her waist. He had discovered that he found it easier to talk when she was facing away from him. When he didn't have to look her in the eye but was still able to feel the warmth of her body.

"What's confusing you, Molly?", he asked before he could get lost in a long monologue about things she might not be interested in.

"It confuses me when you open up to me, when you let me into your life - into your past - only to throw me out a few hours later and then exchange text messages with me like I'm a poor substitute for John Watson," she said frankly but this time Sherlock didn't like the clarity of her words at all. "And now we're here, acting like nothing had happened. Like we're one of those ordinary couples just going out for a walk in autuum."

Sherlock didn't reply. He'd never seen it this way, and as always, he definitely hadn't meant to trigger anything like that inside her. Whatever that was... Definitely nothing positive, as far as he could tell. Was there anything he could do right? Anything at all? The flood of emotions that had accompanied him so often in the last days and weeks and that he had only been able to reduce to a bearable minimum with great effort, threatened to rise up again and overwhelm him. Facts. He had to stick to the facts, or he might cut himself off again and retreat into silence.

He squeezed her hand as if he was silently begging her to not run away again.

"Yes, I let you in. Into my life. Into my past. But I didn't kick you out again. I left because I didn't know how to handle it. How to handle these emotions. How to deal with you. I just can't function like this. I needed to gather myself, distract myself, ground myself. I wanted to be the one you knew before we were seeing Dr. Evans."

His Belstaff and Molly’s thick jacket suddenly were too much layers of clothing for him. He needed her closeness. The clothes created a distance he didn’t like. He wanted her to lean against him, he wanted to feel her pulse, he wanted to make sure everything was okay. But the fabric that warmed her body was cool and dull and bland.

“But I want to see you like you really are”, Molly said softly and completely unexpectedly. She turned her head, looking at him with her hazelnut-brown eyes. Her words moved him, somewhere deep inside. He had shown himself broken and at his lowest point, but Molly obviously still wanted to be with him. Despite his weakness. Despite his errors. Despite his physical and psychological scars. She cared for him in a way he never took care of himself. It was a mystery to him that he just couldn’t solve.

But maybe he didn’t have to.

“You know, Sherlock, sometimes I wonder why we’re doing this to each other. Why we make things complicated that doesn’t need to be complicated”, she added, stroking over his cool fingers. „Why can't we just enjoy each others company?“

“I enjoy your company more than anyone else's, Molly”, it burst out of him without interrupting eye contact. Her expression changed instantly. She just became the gentle, emotional Molly again, who gave him warmth instead of coldness and distance. The Molly who made him feel accepted. The Molly, he just couldn’t let go. She belonged to him. Like he wished it to be. It felt so damn right.

Yes, he would make it – together with her.


	15. Chapter 15

„Do you mind if I change first?”, Molly asked as she put that curry dish on the table they had got themselves on their way back to her place. She still didn’t like to wear something more leger when Sherlock was around but the day had been long and she wanted to get out of that tight jeans. Someone, who was able to play with a ball in the woods, could also wear jog pants at home.

And she needed to change her knickers as well.

Despite the privacy in the tree house, Sherlock hadn’t kissed or touched her. But when they got in the taxi, he had given her that look that made her feel dizzy. And had moved up to her. Close. Very close.

So close that his lips touched hers. Shyly at first as if he was asking for her consent. He had looked at her, even watched her, patiently waiting for her reaction. He had wanted to make sure that it was okay. And Molly had been very close to get lost in his eyes that were shining more green than blue in the twilight. At that very moment, he hadn’t been that Sherlock wo just confidently did what felt right for him. No, he rather seemed to ponder, to chose his next steps very carefully. It was as if her needs had suddenly become more important to him than his own. He took care of her and was attentive. He tried to give and not to take.

It had felt a bit strange and yet so wonderful.

Completely forgetting about the driver who was able to watch them through his rear view mirror, he had kissed her over and over again. Had explored her mouth and had teased her with his tongue. She had been allowed to taste him, to indulge in the kiss - naturally and without feeling embarrassed for her physical reactions. All of a sudden, it felt okay to show the impact he had on her body. How much she enjoyed it. How much she loved it to pull him closer, to feel his lips, to start breathing faster. To want more without being afraid to be rejected.

The sweet tingle between her legs had become stronger with every second that passed and made her forget everything around her. Molly wasn’t even able to tell if any sounds of pure pleasure had escaped her throat during the ride. She had let herself get carried away by that cautiously increasing ecstasy. Something had smashed Sherlock’s barriers but she couldn’t tell what it was. Maybe it didn’t even matter. It were his panting breaths, his blushed cheeks and the fingers seeking for her skin that counted. His lean and elegant fingers...

Molly picked some of her clothes and disappeared into the bathroom to refresh herself a little while Sherlock was setting the table. When she returned to the kitchen, she didn’t know if she was supposed to feel uncomfortable and out of place or not. Sherlock was scanning her whole appearance with his eyes but to her surprise, there was a mild smile playing around the corners of his mouth. Was he amused or did he like what he saw? His sudden change of mood was as nice as it was confusing.

“Tea?”, she asked to get her thoughts back under control. Sherlocked nodded and served the dish onto their plates. Molly put the kettle on and some of the black tea into a strainer, before she took a pot and two cups from her cupboard. Then she placed a lemon onto a board and reached for a knife when Sherlock was suddenly standing behind her. She hadn’t heard him coming closer due the water that was just about to boil. His clothing touched her back - there was hardly enough space for her to turn around.

Molly held her breath when Sherlock pushed her hair aside to brush his lips gently over her neck. A shiver was washing over her body instantly.

“Do you need a hand?”, he asked at her ear, his voice more a hum than an actual sound. His hand stroked her naked arm since she’d opted for a top instead of a sweater. Her hands were slightly shaking when she tried to reach for a knife once again.

“N-no”, she replied weakly and could here him smile. Of course he had noticed her reaction. He always did.

“I missed this”, he whispered and Molly turned her head in surprise. His blue-green eyes were fixed on hers.

“What?”

“I missed this. You getting nervous when I’m near you.”

Sherlock let go of her, took the knife out of her hand and cut the lemon in half before pouring the boiling water into the teapot.

Molly swiped her sweaty palms over her jog pants, then she took the cups to put them on the table. She should really try to gather herself!

The dish wasn’t as nice tasting as it looked but Molly was so hungry that she didn’t care. Sherlock more or less pushed the food around his plate as he always did. Molly had never seen him bite into anything with relish and then leaning back with closed eyes, sighing in pure joy of the taste. Nor had she ever watched him gulping down a meal as if he were starving.

“Do you have a favorite dish or something?”

Sherlock looked at her questioningly. “Like children with pasta or ice cream? No. One eats to survive, one doesn’t live to eat.”

Ah. This response nearly caused the whole conversation to die. And it made Molly feel bad for loving chocolate lava cake. Or nachos with runny cheese. She couldn’t let any of those into her home. They never even survived one single hour.

“But I quite like shepherds pie the way my mother makes it”, he added and elicited a soft grin from her lips.

Sometimes Molly forgot that Sherlock actually had a mother. And a father. He seemed so out of space with his skills and unique abilities. His whole appearance made the thought inconceivable that even he, as a baby, had once soiled his nappies with constant evilness. It was just impossible.

“You don’t see them very often...”, she said, silently hoping to learn more about his life and family. They had never talked about things like these and she didn’t dare to ask him directly.

Sherlock stopped eating - in the limited sense the term eating applied to him. He frowned as if he was trying to figure out what she was getting at. Good Lord, hopefully he wasn’t assuming that she wanted to meet his parents one day. She didn’t even know if she wanted that herself. It was too much to ask, wasn’t it? At least, at that current state of their... Were they even a couple? In a relationship of some sort?

Molly cleared her throat. “Never mind... Anyway... How did it go with John?”

This question wasn’t any better, was it? It somehow sounded so... homo-erotic.

“How it went?”, Sherlock asked and Molly felt the heat rising to her cheeks. She behaved as if this was her very first date. “Quite well, I think”, he added before she could stammer again. But his statement didn’t reveal anything in particular. She had hoped for a little more than that, wondering whether everything was alright again or not.

“Rosie seemed rather joyful about seeing me again, especially after I got her a hot chocolate.”

Molly couldn’t help but giggle. Rosie was a little ray of sunshine, really! Sherlock eventually started talking about his encounter with John and Molly was honestly happy to hear that they had sorted things out. And she refused to think about what her reaction would have been if she had caught Sherlock red-handed with Irene or Janine... She quickly pushed those thoughts back into her subconscious. She was sick of all those negative emotions and had no interest in spoiling the evening.

When they finished their dinner, they removed the plates and Molly took a cloth to clean the table. Sherlock behind her sighed. When she turned around, his lips were parted and his eyes no longer as clear and detached as they had been before.

_You are imagining things, my Dear!_

“Do that again”, he said and Molly frowned.

_Sorry, what?_

Hesitantly, she turned around again and bent over the tabletop insecurely. He immediately put his hands between her shoulder blades which made her freeze.

„Stay like this. Please”, he hummed behind her and Molly let go of the cloth. What the hell was wrong with him? She was standing in her kitchen - tired and exhausted from her busy day with nothing on but a tight top and sluggish jog pants. She looked like a desperate housewife. Hadn’t she been standing in front of the mirror at Baker Street a few weeks ago, looking at her reflection and asking herself if she might try to put on lingerie?

„Sherlock”, she asked weakly, sinking onto her forearms when he increased the pressure on her back. He let his fingertips slide down her spine which caused goosebumps all over her skin like it had never done before. She swallowed hard.

“I’ve never told you but I like to see you like this. From behind...”, he almost whispered and Molly closer her eyes. “What I don’t like, however, is the colour of your knickers.”

The colour of her knickers? What was wrong with her knickers? And could he be...

Oh.

His fingertips went slightly underneath the thin fabric, which was apparently not completely covered by her waistband. The pleasant tingle between her legs returned immediately. Molly was so sensitive and starved that she became wet within seconds.

Damn, she really could’ve saved herself the changing of her knickers!

“You usually wear white ones. This one’s black. It bothers me. It doesn’t fit”, he explained, letting his fingertips slide further underneath the hem. Molly bit her lower lip. Did he actually know what he did to her?

“They... they’re in the laundry. I just... Shall I...“

_Take them off? Seriously? No, you don’t want to ask him that question, you really don’t._

Sherlock laughed softly behind her. Molly lowered her head onto her hands. She was so embarrassed that she wanted to curl up and die. What a stupid cow she was!

"Yes?", he asked provocatively, leaning forward to kiss her neck on the same spot as he had done while making tea. His closeness, his body heat was electrifying. Molly didn't dare to move an inch. And to reply anything since she would certainly have made things worse.

"Molly?", he tried again and let his hand slide under the top that now revealed the pale skin of her back as he moved upwards.

"W-Why are you doing this?", she breathed. And that would be her last complete sentence if he carried on with what he was doing.

He didn't give her an answer and ran his lips over her half exposed back and down her sides instead. Molly was unintentionally breathing faster in excitement as he worked his way down again, finally stroking over her bottom with his hand. Her knickers were wet - really wet - and Molly hoped he wouldn't see it through her pants. They were light gray – the worst color she could wish for right now - and his face was probably damn close.

Molly's body started trembling when she realized that Sherlock was pulling at her pants. He barely touched her, she just felt the fabric slide further down her buttocks until it landed on the floor.

She had often worn knickers in front of him, especially when they went to sleep. Even in Edinburgh, she had been lying next to him in nothing but her panties and a t-shirt when he had explored her sides with his hand, and yet what was happening now was something completely different. Molly suddenly felt so naked.

And then his lips were breathing gentle kisses on the sensitive skin of her butt.

“Oh my God”, she sighed and bit her tongue.

“Not quite but I am honored”, he replied.

What?

She was barely able to concentrate. When his hand went to her lower back and she heard him straighten himself again, Molly slowly turned around to him. Without thinking about it, she laid her hand in his neck and pulled him closer. Her kiss was probably too hard and demanding, her breathing faster than it was good for her. She wanted and longed for him more than ever! Even though he had done very little. She was still almost fully dressed. He had not exposed her breasts or let his hand slide into her knickers, nor had he driven his fingers between her thighs, and yet she was on the verge of losing her mind.

But to her surprise, Sherlock seemed to feel the same. He held her tight, returned the kiss at least as passionately as she did, swiping his tongue over her open lips. Molly couldn’t help but imagine where else he could kiss her that way and whimpered.

How she would have loved to unbutton his shirt, how she would have loved to feel and explore the skin underneath. And yet she dared not to do so. She wouldn't cross that line without talking to him about it first.

Sherlock, for his part, however, pulled up her top and finally over her head. It landed somewhere on the floor. He let himself be guided by his desire which Molly had always thought didn't exist. As he was nibbling on her bottom lip, his fingers found the straps of her bra and pushed them over her shoulders. She wanted him to touch her, to rip off that disturbing piece of clothing but the damn fabric was still covering her breasts as he kept covering her neck with kisses and running his lips over her collarbone.

No one had ever taken so much time to explore her body as he did. Usually men were far too impatient but Sherlock seemed to literally study her body, drinking every square inch in with all his senses. It was as if he was creating a mental map of some sort, memorizing her reactions along with his impressions.

Ever so slowly, his fingertips brushed over her skin, following his kisses down until he reached the cups of her bra, finally pushing the fabric aside. An involuntary sigh escaped Molly's throat, as his lips enclosed one of her buds to gently suck on it. She had to steady herself against the table to keep her balance.

God, how many times had she imagined something like this whilst pleasing herself unrestrainedly!

She arched her back, leaned into his touch and let him do all the things he wanted to do all too willingly when he opened her bra. There was something extremely delicate about standing in front of him almost naked, while he was still fully clothed.

“Your neighbours might see you, Molly”, Sherlock said quietly, glancing to her window for a brief moment. It had gotten dark outside hours ago and in her illuminated kitchen, she was indeed put in the spotlight.

“Be quiet and don’t you dare to stop”, Molly replied confidently, looking into his surprised eyes. She was usually so mousey – but she could also be different on special occasions. And this certainly was one.

A sparkle came into his eyes, which could be described as a mixture of pleasure and amusement. He pulled her closer to kiss her again, pressing his body against hers. Molly held on to him, enjoying the feeling of his chest on her skin and the pounding heart underneath. She got onto the table top and wrapped her legs around his hips.

He was hard. Really hard.

Guided by her desire, she grasped his shirt and pressed herself against his crotch in need of some friction. She just couldn’t help it. The excitement made her feel too dizzy to even think about it. A soft but lustful moan escaped her throat as his erection was rubbing repeatedly over her most sensitive spot and his hand squeezing one of her breasts.

“Oh fuck, Molly”, Sherlock whispered, looking at her full of fascination and desire.

'Fuck' - Yes, that was exactly what she needed right now. Sherlock who was pounding greedily into her. Who was fucking her as if there were no tomorrow. It was long overdue. She wanted more, more, more! She wanted him!

Sherlock met her movements, his hot breath brushing over her skin as he was kissing her - more uncoordinated and harshly than before. His hands, eventually moving further southwards, stroked over her belly. She would have loved to take his wrist and guide it down between her thighs. Molly was so willing that his every touch - however gently or incidently - only fueled her arousal. His fingers were digging into the flesh of her hip. He held her in place, silently seeking release.

Sherlock’s gasping breaths were occasionally accompanied by lustful sounds, which were only encouraging Molly to carry on. That’s what she always wanted. She had wanted to see him let go and give himself to her.

But suddenly he tried to free himself from her caress. Molly was confused for a moment. Sherlock’s lips were swollen from the kisses, his cheekbones slightly red. His arousal was hard to mistake – he obviously needed to pause, if he didn’t want this to end too quickly. Molly bit her lower lip. The hands, which were still resting on her hips, moved agonizingly slowly over her thighs and towards her core. Sherlock’s gaze followed them. It was the first time he was looking at her so openly. He let his thumb wander over her still covered folds and caused Molly to moan.

“I've often wondered what sounds you'd make if I touched you. Whether I could make you whimper. Or moan. Or maybe even call my name”, he said, his voice more deep and vibrant than usual.

“What if you make me do all of it? In one night?” Molly asked bluntly. Her lust was too strong and overwhelming to be ashamed. She had time for that later. Sherlock swallowed heavily. Apparently, he had not expected such an answer. Then a smile appeared around the corners of his mouth.

“Let me take your knickers off. Time to find out”, he said, and Molly’s body was instantly flooded by a wave of joyful anticipation. It took only a few seconds for her underwear to land on the floor as well, then she was back on the edge of the table.

Molly had expected him to push his fingers right into her or to bury his head between her legs. At least, she thought he might not be able to detach his gaze from her exposed flesh. Instead, he stood in front of her and looked into her eyes hesitatnly. He seemed to think and calibrate his next steps. Molly saw worries briefly reflecting in his eyes. She didn’t know if she could do anything to help him and get rid of his unspoken concerns. Should she take the reins, maybe? But how far was she allowed to go? Before she could get lost in her thoughts again, Sherlock stepped closer, cupping her cheeks and laying his forehead on hers.

“I want this to work”, he whispered softly and Molly nodded to signal that she understood, although she wasn’t so sure if she, in fact, did. Then his lips gently searched for hers.

”I'm going to tell you what to do, okay?” he breathed, watching her attentively.

“Okay”, Molly replied, suddenly as excited as she had been when having her first time.

“I want you to open my trousers, Molly. Just the zipper. And look at me, please.” His blue-green eyes were fixed on hers as if they wanted to make sure she was fully focused on him. Her hand reached for his fly, feeling the hardness under the thin fabric and the dampness that could have come from her or from him. Or maybe from both of them.

She let her hand slide over his member a few times, watching his reaction closely as he had done with her before. Sherlock closed his eyes for a moment and took a deep breath.

Molly found the zipper and carefully opened it. Her heart was beating fast in her chest as she waited for further instructions. She still hadn't averted her gaze.

"A little harder: reach for my underpants. Free... _him_...," he instructed and Molly couldn't help but grin. Sherlock Holmes, who usually expressed himself so accurately and in such a unique way, truly had trouble getting a little dirtier and calling a spade a spade.

Molly's fingers slid carefully into his pants. The space to do as told was indeed more than limited but she could feel his manhood more clearly now. Thoughts of what _he_ might look like, what _he_ tasted like, and what _he _might feel like inside her threatened to overwhelm her. She just couldn't wait any longer!__

____

She pulled at the fabric until she felt the waistband under her fingertips. And the warmth that emanated from his bare, soft skin. Sherlock exhaled in relief as her hand closed around his shaft, freeing him from his confinement.

____

Without being asked to, Molly began massaging him - slowly and carefully. He was a little longer and a little thinner than she'd thought but he was real and hard and throbbing in her hand. She drove her thumb over his wet tip and elicited a low and almost agonizing moan from Sherlock. He wanted her - as much as she wanted him. Sherlock kissed her passionately while she was still rubbing him, but then he stopped her, saying, "Lie down and keep your eyes fixed on the ceiling."

____

Molly did as ordered, put her feet on the table top and leaned back. The cold wooden surface made her nipples harder and she held her breath for a short time. Sherlock’s fingers drove down her inner thighs and finally over her wet folds. She gasped and closed her eyes.

____

Then Sherlock wrapped his arms around her legs and pulled her closer to the edge of the table. Molly’s feet could no longer be placed on the wood, so that she had to lift her knees, laying in front of him with her legs spread wide apart. She had never shown herself to anyone like that before. So naked and willing and wet.

____

“I feel so... exposed”, she whispered as Sherlock neither stroked over her skin nor penetrated her. He didn’t touch her at all, but Molly didn’t dare to disobey his orders. She looked at the ceiling as he apparently let his eyes wander all over her body.

____

"You are exposed, Molly. And beautiful," he replied softly before he rubbed his erection over her most sensitive spot. Molly gasped. Again and again he stimulated her sensitive clit until she began to moan softly and all thoughts of her nakedness were gone. What he was doing was torturous and not at all enough to find satisfaction.

____

"Sherlock, please," Molly begged softly when she couldn't take it anymore. And finally - finally he pushed against her entrance, entering and stretching her. Sherlock panted and Molly couldn't help but look him in the eye. She didn't just want to connect with him only physically. She wanted to see the hint of something far more intimate in his gaze, wondering if this was just a tiny little bit as magical for him as it was for her. And indeed, there was fascination and lust reflecting in his face, but also relief to have finally taken this step with her. She smiled – and he smiled back.

____

She closed her eyes again when Sherlock began to move inside her. Maybe it was the long sexual abstinence, or maybe it was just the angle with which he was thrusting into her, but Molly melted within seconds. She covered her eyes with one arm and held onto the edge of the table with the other hand, while Sherlock was taking her with deep and controlled and firm thrusts, probably watching him slide into her body and almost completely out again.

____

Although Molly would have loved to hold on to him and feel the warmth and closeness of his body, she enjoyed his thumb, which was extremely effective in taking care of her clit, a little to much to do so. Sherlock was breathing heavily but his movements did not become any faster. Quite the opposite. He slowed down and paused for a moment.

____

Molly whimpered.

____

“Molly, tell me what you want. How you want it...”, he whispered. She looked at him in surprise for a moment and swallowed. God, she’d never been asked to do that before. She needed him and his thrusts – harder and more passionately and mercilessly. But could she really say it like that?

____

“I want it faster, please”, she said weakly and threw her head back as Sherlock dug his fingers into the sensitive flesh of her thighs and increased the pace. Her moans became louder instantly and she nodded encouragingly to keep him going. She had some filthy things on the tip of her tongue, really filthy things, but she preferred to replace them with some incoherent expressions addressed to God.

____

“Molly, I...“ , she heard Sherlock say way too early, then he seemed to lose control completely when he groaned loudly. His face, so completely absorbed in lust and the subsequent relaxation of his orgasm, was the most beautiful thing Molly had ever seen.

____

However, it had been much too soon. Molly wasn’t yet at the point she had been longing for. Her fingers found their way to her wet and responsive folds, where she was pleasing herself uninhibitedly, as if she were alone in her bedroom. Sherlock withdrew from her, and seemed to be watching - or catching his breath – or both. She didn’t know. But moments later, his fingers suddenly were shoved deep inside her.

____

“Come for me, Molly”, he said, pushing them inside as fast and hard as she had asked before.

____

Holy Mary, that was far more frivolous than just lying naked in front of him. He had just been inside of her, had stretched her and ejaculated – surrounded by her tightness - and now she was laying here, twitching and writhing, and let herself be satisfied by his fingers!

____

“Oh, my God, Sherlock!” she cried, rubbing herself impatiently. She was so damn desperate and needy.

____

His assistance and words were extremely helpful. It didn't take long for Molly's orgasm to take over her entire body. She shouted something without knowing exactly what it was, digging her fingers into his arm. The waves of her orgasm were washing over her body, controlling her, taking her breath away.

____

Sherlock gently withdrew his hand from her, unintentionally making sure that she realized what they had just done. Oh God, that was... That was...

____

Not only might Mrs. Smith from across the street have had an unobstructed view of a naked and moaning Molly, no, she'd let Sherlock make her climax after he'd come inside her. The table, the floor, his fingers... The mess. And when was the last time she had shaved? Two days ago? Three? It should be three. Too little to look blowsy, right? Right?

____

Sherlock pulled her up and Molly buried her head, blushed with embarrassment, in the curve of his neck. She knew it was good that they had finally done it. That he had had overcome his fears and allowed it to happen. He wrapped his arms around her waist and stroked over her back tenderly. A drop of sweat that had escaped his curls hit her skin and his shirt felt clammy too. Molly risked a cautious glance down.

____

Sherlock was fully covered again, but the marks on his crotch clearly gave their actions away. Molly felt his semen making its way out and groaned. As nice spontaneous and truly naked sex was, she usually felt a bit uncomfortable afterwards. It was warm and sticky and...

____

"I'm going to run us a bath," she said, but didn't realize in the first place what she was actually asking him to do. "I mean, we don't have to do this together, we..."

____

"Ssh," Sherlock just replied softly, breathing a kiss on her forehead. Then he met her eyes. He looked peaceful and relaxed. „I'll join you. But keep the lights off. "

____

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What can I say... FINALLY! 14 Chapters to get us there. We - they - deserved it, right? :D


	16. Chapter 16

Sherlock grabbed a towel and left the bathroom again as Molly - naked as she was - turned on the tabs of her tub. Those hormones, so vehemently released into his bloodstream after orgasm, were clouding his brain. Molly had looked pleased. Pleased and satisfied, even though he had come far too soon. He had given her what she had been asking for for so long. And what he had so vigorously suppressed. He felt so... freed. And relieved.

But his trousers were ruined and his shirt sweat-soaked. Hopefully, Molly's wardrobe had a reasonable alternative to the pink sleeping shirt with that cat pic on the breast pocket to offer. But he would worry about that later.

He undressed himself in her bedroom and folded his clothes more or less neatly on a pile before he quickly wrapped the towel around his waist and took a quick look in the mirror. The scars had faded over time but his skin still resembled that of a soldier fresh from the battlefield. It wasn’t about aesthetics. He wasn’t a woman. He had got used to the sight and learned to live with it. But Molly didn’t know him like that. It was her pitying looks that he would have to endure. And her way too gentle attempts to touch him.

He didn’t want to. He really didn't.

When he went back to the bathroom, the light was out but two candles lit, standing on the edge of the bathtub. Candles. Again. Was that one of those woman-related things? Molly was already sitting in the warm water that hasn’t even filled half of the tub yet and had her back turned to him.

“Move a bit forward”, he said, undid the towel that had covered him and sat down behind her. It was strange. He had just had sex with her, had experienced a moment that most people considered to be the most intimate thing that two people could share with each other. But this bath and the last consultation with Dr. Evans somehow felt much more naked and intimate. At least for him.

Molly leaned silently against his chest, and Sherlock responded by wrapping his arms around her body as he always did. She was so soft - and therefore a nice contrast to his lean and firm figure. A small mountain of foam had formed where the running water hit the surface. It smelled of a mixture of lavender and vanilla. Much too sweet for his taste but if Molly liked it he wouldn’t complain. The rushing of the water stopped when Molly turned off the tap. Then she placed her fingers on his forearm and let them wander over his skin tenderly. He closed his eyes.

It was nice that some things just worked without doing anything in particular. For a change, it was so relaxing. Her question, however, why they had to cause all that drama was echoing through his head over and over again since she had uttered it. Did they really make things far more complicated than they needed to be? He wanted nothing more than to just enjoy each others company too - as she had put it so nicely. Her words had touched a raw nerve because they made him feel as if he was incapable of doing anything right. Was he doing her good right now? At this very moment? She still looked pleased. Her heart was beating strongly but slowly. He could feel it against his chest. Her breathing was regular and she wasn't as nervous as she had been a few minutes ago.

He smirked.

How nervous she had been during dinner. Just as he knew her. Just as he had fallen in love with her. Even if it was completely irrational, Sherlock wanted to be the only one who could make her this nervous. Who was allowed to see her like this. With cheeks blushed in embarrassment. With her fingers fumbling excitedly. He wondered if her nervousness was going to wear off in the future.

Probably so. The feeling of novelty never lasted long. People got used to each other. They were driving each other crazy at some point. Nobody was perfect. Everyone had shortcomings and quirks and idiosyncrasies that one could barely stand in the long run. But with Molly? Would it be the same with her? He refused to think about it. He'd known her for so many years and he couldn't think of a single moment in which he'd felt annoyed by her.

Were they even a couple? Now that he had opened up and slept with her? He was clearly lacking experience in this area to judge. He hated when things were unclear but he couldn't possibly ask her right now, could he? Besides, it implied the possibility of Molly throwing a No at him and that would have been worse than not knowing. No, he'd rather stay here in the tub, feeling the warmth of the water and the warmth of her body in front of him.

"Sherlock?", he heard Molly's voice reach his ear. The silence had been so wonderful. It had calmed him down along with the cocktail of hormones in his blood, almost putting him into a kind of trance. Similar to when he went to his mind palace. And yet so much quieter.

"Mmmhh?", he just hummed without opening his eyes.

"Did Mrs. Smith from across the street really see me?"

Sherlock failed to suppress a laugh. It came over him as suddenly as that kiss earlier in the cab. His passion-driven Molly had been so indifferent to being seen just minutes ago, hadn't she?

_Shut up and don't you dare to stop!_

Those had been exactly her words.

"Stop laughing, it's not funny!", she protested immediately but Sherlock didn't get the impression that she was really mad at him. If anything, she was embarrassed.

"Do you really think I would so easily share what I was privileged to see?", he asked, now opening his eyes again. Her tied up hair was tickling his cheek as he bent his head forward to kiss her shoulder. "However, I have to admit that my focus got a little sidetracked every now and then."

"Oh Goooooood," Molly said slowly and buried her face in her hands. Was she really so worried about the neighbors? Or was it because of him?

"Calm down, the lady is old and has bad eyes," he said as distant and matter-of-factly as ever.

"What if she had a heart attack because of..."

"Then it was the most beautiful thing for her to see before she passed away," he cut her short to interrupt those negative thoughts. But he was serious. Molly's body was beautiful, even though her breasts were perhaps a little too small. He didn't mind at all. The little mole on the left one was quite cute, actually. And let alone her butt! He loved her butt! He would have loved to have her right from behind after...

"Sherlock!", she cried, interrupting those forbidden thoughts that would have inappropriately led to even more forbidden actions but she eventually started laughing herself. Was she piqued? Probably. He very much doubted that she found the death of distant acquaintances funny.

And yet, she turned to him and kissed him with her soft lips. He could not get enough of tasting and feeling them today. It had been hard to control himself since they had been sitting next to each other in the cab. It was an addiction like the one to his cocaine, only much sweeter. And more dangerous.

Molly’s little hands were cupping his cheeks. The kiss wasn't passionate. Rather lazy and somehow appreciative. An after-sex kiss? He definitely needed to collect some more comparable data to come to a profound conclusion on those things. However, she let go of him again and seemed to think for a moment. In the dim light he couldn’t see that much, not even her facial expressions. But then her hand reached for one of the bottles on the edge of the bathtub.

“May I wash your hair?”, she asked quietly. Sherlock smiled once more. Not badly played. Molly knew his hair wasn’t a part of the no-go area. She was save to touch him there.

Instead of answering, he turned around, which unfortunately did not happen as elegantly as he'd thought due to the lack of space. A little water splashed over the tub and almost extinguished one of the small candles but they didn’t care.

Using a small box that must have also been somewhere on the edge of her tub, Molly ran the warm water over his head and some shampoo on her hand before she carefully spread it on his hair. Sherlock hummed with joy. The little massage felt wonderful and reminded him of how much he had loved having his hair washed by his mother as a child. She had always taken her time to do it.

Having a bath together with his brother when they were kids had quickly come to an end when they began to bet on who could hold their breath longest underwater. Sherlock had emerged as the clear winner. His body and lungs had simply been better trained. He had taken a deep breath before submerging into the water whereas Mycroft was waiting patiently, measuring time. Until Sherlock beat him by three seconds. Then by 4, 5, 6. His lungs had been burning but Sherlock had refused to come up yet. He’d wanted to show off a little, making sure that Mycroft had no excuses or false explanations on why his little brother won. He had always been the smarter of the two. But there were also things Sherlock was better at. Much better. And this was just one of them. 7. 8. 9. Sherlock had counted. Of course. Until Mycroft had put his hand on his head.

Firmly. Way too firmly.

His brother just couldn’t stand it when someone was superior to him. He just couldn’t let him win. Sherlock had been kicking like a baby. The tub had been too slippery and the panic too strong for him to free himself from his brother’s grip. That Sherlock had flooded half the bathroom with his movements had been his luck in the end. His mother had rushed into the room completely beside herself with rage, fisting Mycroft's hair and pulling him to his feet. Sherlock had gasped for air in pure relief – but his head had unfortunately still been under water. His lungs had felt like on fire. He had coughed and choked and spit water, thinking he was going to die. Until oxygen had got into his alveoli again.

Since then, he had bathed alone. Since then, his mother had always stayed in the room with him. And since then, she had washed his hair again. And nobody had ever washed his hair as well as Mummy. Not even his barber. The movements of his fingers were far too professional and purposeful for that. And... male.

But what Molly was doing - that was beautiful. This was just for him, not for twenty people in just one day. And it was Molly. His gentle and cautious and loving Molly. Only the smell of the shampoo did not please him. Only women would put products like these in their hair. Something that was probably imitating the scent of a flower meadow. A synthetic one. Terrible.

"You like it," Molly stated as her fingertips traced small, gentle circles on his scalp.

"Hmm," Sherlock just confirmed, once more not understanding why people always had to state the obvious.

“What about this?”, she then asked, slowly letting her hands travel down to his neck and shoulders. He had been so relaxed just now. Why did she had to stop?

“That’s... okay”, he said, wishing her fingers would find their way back. In his hair. On his scalp. But Molly seemed to have other plans. Her right hand slid further down over his back, touching the first long-stretched scar over his shoulder blade. A cane. Not Sergei – but still... Four hard blows on exactly the same spot. Until the blood, wet and warm and sticky, had been running down his skin. After all, one of the nicer treatments...

He hardly noticed that he winced and tensed his muscles. Hadn't he already surpassed himself today? On so many levels? Why did Molly have to destroy the moment of his bliss?

She immediately withdrew her hand when she noticed how he was reacting to the touch.

"But not this," she said, waiting for him to respond. Sherlock kept silent. The Wall. There it was again.

_Hello! Long time no see, huh? It's been nice without you._

He could hear the grinding of his teeth as he clenched them tightly, his jaw muscles clearly visible if it wouldn't be so dark. He suddenly didn't like this at all. It was too much. He would have loved to get out of the water and throw himself on Molly's bed. Or to go home. But they have been through this kind of thing recently, haven't they? But what now?

"You know, Sherlock, you could just tell me. What's okay and what's not. That makes it easier for me. For us."

Us.

Us.

Two simple letters that soothed him immediately. Two letters that were bringing back his question that had come up in his mind so many times. Us - that was Sherlock and Molly. That was a repetition and continuation of their togetherness and intimacy, wasn't it?

"Us?", he asked, because the darkness allowed him to. And because the word was short enough not to get lost in awkward and complicated sentences again. A single word that could also be interpreted in ways other than the foolish question, "Are we actually a couple?"

The question of Us was less sentimental, less painful, less romantic. And just about tolerable for a Holmes.

"Of course, us" Molly said softly. "You got me into this. Now live with the consequences," she added with a smile in her voice. Apparently, she – just as him - didn't feel the need for some more drama. He couldn't explain her almost saucy response in any other way. Sherlock's heart suddenly became so warm.

He searched for her hand, squeezed it and raised it to his lips. He kissed every fingertip and palm of her hand in silent gratitude. Then he put it back on his head.

“Well then – _this_ is okay. I like that. The rest will need some time. ”

  
  



	17. Chapter 17

“Molly, nice to see you again!”, Dr. Evans greeted her when they were standing in front of the psychologist's office a few weeks later.

Sherlock saw his therapist once a week and as far Molly could tell, had never missed a single session. But afterwards, he always remained closed off and was not very talkative. Most of the time, he had come to her place without looking for real contact. He just needed to calm down a bit and her company seemed to soothe him. He was quiet but didn’t want to be alone. He didn't even try to find distraction from his state of mind.

Molly had got used to it by now. She had begun to take care of her own stuff, planning her to do’s for the time after his appointments with the therapist. Sometimes she just read a book while enjoying a hot cup of tea, sometimes she cooked for both of them or did her paperwork. The other day, they had even gone out for a walk, although it had been dark and windy. They hadn't talked at all. The lights of the city and his warm hand holding hers had been enough to make her feel comfortable despite the silence.

Molly was as understanding and considerate as ever. It was what it was and she accepted it.

Sherlock and Molly entered the premises, which had not changed since their last visit. Even the scent was still the same. Molly was nervous, yes. But not half as nervous as last time. After Dr. Evans had poured them both a hot cup of tea, she sat down on the sofa and smiled the smile therapists often do. Today, rays of sunshine were falling through the large window pane and danced across the floorboards. One could assume that it was relatively mild if not pleasantly warm outside but actually the temperature was only just above freezing point. It would have been more comfortable in any fridge.

"Why are you both here today?", the psychologist asked softly. Her gaze darted back and forth between the two. Apparently, Molly was allowed to actively participate in the conversation this time.

“I… um…“, she began insecurely. "May I?”, she then asked, addressing Sherlock who tried to suppress a smile. He nodded.

“We… we’ve gotten closer by now. Generally… I mean. Ever since Sherlock told me about his problem. Communication is better and more open than before but I… I’m still not allowed to touch him”, Molly said, feeling her cheeks blush. It felt strange to involve a third party into intimacies like these but there was no other way if they wanted to overcome those difficulties.

"I see", Dr. Evans said, adjusting her oversized glasses. She was a pretty woman. That kind of woman that made others envy her for looking better without makeup than most women after a long beauty session.

"I'm glad, Molly, that you're not shying away from this challenge and decided to face it instead. Together with Sherlock." And there was the same soothing smile again. Was it sincere sympathy or just a polite gesture? Molly guessed the former. Her intuition told her that Dr. Evans felt true sympathy for Sherlock. She really wanted him to get better. What she discussed with Sherlock in their sessions obviously didn't leave her entirely cold but Molly couldn't blame her. After all, no one was dealing with that kind of trauma on a daily basis - not even a psychologist.

"We've established something like no-go areas," Sherlock added. Dr. Evans was silent for a moment, looking from one to the other again.

“No-go areas may help you to get closer to each other for a start. They build a basis of trust between two people if they are strictly adhered to, of course. However, the great disadvantage is that those areas also create something like a mental barrier over time instead of softening and resolving it – similar to classic stereotype thinking. We subconsciously name and categorize things in order to act adequately. It makes us feel secure and enables us to react quickly to certain situations. However, it is extremely difficult for us to change that learned behaviour and use another stereotype instead”, Dr Evans explained.

Molly had often felt that they should have seen the therapist sooner. She gave Sherlock a worried look. Have they made things worse?

“Which parts belong to those areas?”, the psychologist then asked and this time she looked Sherlock straight in the eye. Apparently, she wanted to hear the answer from him. Molly reached for her tea and took a sip when he replied.

“Many. My upper back, my stomach, my chest. They liked to use the front because they could force me to watch what they did to me. It is also easier to reach the sensitive organs through the abdominal wall. ”

Sherlock interrupted eye contact and stared out of the window for a moment, then he put his fingertips on his temple. There were more but Molly wouldn’t intervene. It was about his body, not hers. Yet, she grabbed his hand to make him feel better.

“Anything else?”, Dr. Evans asked.

"My... my butt," he said to the window pane. In their first session together, Sherlock had indicated that he had been threatened with sexual assault. That he had been touched against his will. Molly didn't know to what extent but apparently it was enough to evoke unpleasant associations as soon as she got closer to said parts.

"Genitals?", the therapist cautiously dug deeper. Molly would have felt ashamed at that question. She could see that Sherlock was also feeling a little uncomfortable but he seemed to find his way back to a matter-of-fact level rather quickly. He shook his head.

"Difficult but possible. I can block that out.... at a certain point."

Molly drove her thumb over the back of his hand. She was pleased that he was speaking so openly instead of retreating into silence again. This was different from first time. There was nothing he still had to confess to her. The basic problem was known, now it was just about handling it and that made it a little easier for everyone.

“Okay”, Dr. Evans said, taking some notes.

"I've got the impression that it's easier for him when he's behind me", Molly said into the silence that was only interrupted by the scratching sound of the pen. She thought that this information might be relevant. When Sherlock approached her, he often did it from behind, kissing her just below her ear. When they slept, it had become a habit that Molly was laying on her side and Sherlock snuggling up against her back. And there had been countless situations in which Sherlock had been sitting behind her, his arms wrapped around her waist. In the tree house, in the tub, even on the Bart's rooftop the other day during her lunch break.

To her surprise, Dr. Evans indeed looked up for a moment.

"What's easier for him?"

"Everything. Talking. Touching. Being touched. Enjoying any kind of intimacy if you will...", Molly explained. She felt Sherlock's gaze on her skin. He probably hadn't noticed it himself, and Molly had never brought it up until now. Dr. Evans seemed to process this new information. Molly was suddenly uncomfortable with what she had sad. Had it been too much? Had she even crossed a line?

"Maybe it's the lack of eye contact, I don't know," she added to break the silence that was ringing in her ears.

_That'll do, my Dear..._

She quickly took another sip of her tea. The sun was gone by now, only the horizon was painted in a beautiful violett shade. It wouldn't take long until it became dark. And sulky. And cold. Molly clearly preferred summer. No wonder people were suffering from winter depression...

“You see, I’m skilled in depth psychology. I’m not a couples therapist. My knowledge is only rudimentary in this field – I shall be that honest with you. But I've got an idea”, Dr. Evans said, pausing. Apparently, she was expecting a reaction of some sort.

“Which is?”, Molly asked and squeezed Sherlock’s hand.

“To be able to help you, I have to witness it. Your dynamic as a couple. Your reactions. Which is why I’d like you to touch him, Molly. Somewhere in his no-go area”, she explained. It was a lot to ask, she knew it. They all knew that.

The psychologist’s eyes wandered to Sherlock.

“We are not in a Tantra studio here. You don’t have to undress for this, Sherlock. Of course, you can put in your veto at any time if it gets too much for you.”

Sherlock looked seriously terrified for a moment but gathered himself surprisingly quickly. However, he did not answer right away. He didn’t react at all. Presumably, different scenarios were flashing through his mind, all of which needed to be taken into consideration. Molly didn’t know what to think of the proposal either. It made perfectly sense to her, it even seemed to be necessary, yet she feared to press Sherlock with it. But then he nodded silently.

Dr. Evans got up, turned on the light, and threw some pillows on the floor right in front of her sofa.

"I want you to sit down for this but not as Molly has just indicated. Sherlock, you will sit in front, please", Dr. Evans said, waiting for them to rise. Sherlock seemed just as unsettled as Molly. Neither of them really knew what the therapist was getting at - what she was trying to achieve here.

Hesitantly, Molly got up and took a seat on one of the pillows. The sofa behind her served as a backrest. Sherlock took off his jacket and placed it on the cushion he had just been sitting on before taking his seat in front of her. Dr. Evans sat down beside them at a distance.

"Feel free to take a few moments to get used to the situation. I want you to act as if I'm not here," she explained softly. Molly took a quick but deep breath and then tried to focus on Sherlock as best she could. His body was tense.

The last time, Molly had been sitting behind him like this was during their first bath together. She loved to think back to that night, remembering the first time she had slept with him. And how happy and relieved she'd felt. It had been so good to finally make some progress and to get back on the right track with him. It had clealry been a turning point for their relationship and they had both felt it.

She smiled. She knew how to make Sherlock relax. She had known it instinctively then, too.

Slowly and carefully, she started to run her hands through Sherlock's hair, letting the curls slide through her fingers, then she gently began to massage him. He was downright addicted to it. Molly had recognized it immediately but hadn't used it so much yet since she didn't want the magic to wear off so quickly. It shouldn't be something normal, something he would take for granted.

In those moments, she could literally feel him relax under her touch with every second that passed. He always purred like a cat in his mistress's lap. And he didn't leave her disappointed this time either, although the desired effect came with a little delay.

Sherlock arched slightly back to lean into her touch, consciously or subconsciously, and Molly was pretty sure that he also had his eyes closed. She stroked him briefly above his left ear, then traced small circles up to his forehead until she worked her way back over the top of his head and down to the nape of his neck. She deliberately took her time with the little massage, wanting to make sure that Sherlock was as relaxed as he could be in this situation and giving him some time to block out Dr. Evans before she got closer to the area they had been trying to avoid so carefully.

The next time she reached Sherlock's neck, she let her fingers trail down a tiny bit further. She could feel Sherlock's relaxation slipping, his breathing not as deep as it had been moments before. Still, she continued to run her fingers down and over his vertebrae. Sherlock was so thin she could feel every bone underneath the fabric. It wasn't that it bothered Molly aesthetically. She accepted him as he was. She cherished every single moment she was allowed to be near him and his body. All she wanted was to do him good. To overwrite his bad experiences. But sometimes, she was just worried if his weight was still healthy. Actually, she was a bit surprised what he had been able to take. The torment back then, the drugs, all those fights with criminals of all sort. The bullet in his chest. He was stronger than most people out there. Despite his skinny stature and his unhealthy habits...

She carefully turned to the scar that ran across his shoulder blade. She still knew exactly where it was and followed the trace she felt through his shirt. Like in her bathroom, Sherlock winced and tried to escape her fingertips. Molly withdrew immediately and looked at Dr. Evans who shook her head silently. Insecurely, Molly put her hand back on the exact same spot. Every muscle in Sherlock’s body was tense. He tried to breathe deeply but apparently, it hasn't had the effect he was looking for and stroked over his face instead.

"Molly, leave your hand where it is. And Sherlock, tell me what you're feeling right now," Dr. Evans demanded gently but resolutely. Molly could feel Sherlock's agony through her fingertips. She felt bad. She didn't want to trigger whatever she was triggering inside him right now.

Was this really necessary? All the struggle and the pain?

But instead of replying anything, Sherlock suddenly groaned and jumped to his feet. The door slammed shut before Molly could even realize that he was moving away. Fleeing from her, from them. The silence he left behind was unbearable.

Was she supposed to follow him? Or was it better to leave him alone? Confused, worried and scared at the same time, she glanced at Dr. Evans. To her surprise, the psychologist smiled.

Yes, she even seemed to be pleased.

Molly was completely taken aback. She didn't understand anything at all anymore.


	18. Chapter 18

“Why did you leave the room?”, Dr. Evans asked a week later. This case was special. So different from anything she’d ever dealt with before. Not only was Sherlock Holmes' personality so special compared to others but what he’d been through was the most traumatic thing she’d ever experienced. And she had seen a lot during her career.

She only had the hard cases. Multiple rape victims, people with high suicidal tendencies, sometimes even murderers. Soldiers with post-traumatic stress disorder. But nothing like this.

It had taken so long for him to finally open up to her. So much time wasted until she had discovered a tiny little chance to gain his trust. And to prove that she was worthy. That she could help him even if he didn’t want to be helped. At least, not really.

Only God knew who or what had made him set foot into her office. The Sherlock Holmes case was so enticing and exhausting and dramatic that Dr. Evans had a hard time drawing the line between private and professional life. She couldn't stop thinking about him when she was at home. She always found herself pondering quietly after their sessions, trying to find a way for him to process everything he had been through.

The events of their last appointment had only confirmed what she'd already suspected. What seemed to be a failure had actually been a success because it had given her a hint of where to start. And she was in the mood to crack that nut. She was a good therapist.

„Because it was too much. Everything“, he said. It wasn't what she wanted to hear. He was smarter and more complex than that.

"You could have said no. You could have talked to us", she countered. Molly gave her an irritated look, then looked back to Sherlock. The man she loved and almost sacrificed herself to. It was remarkable but also a little alarming.

Sherlock put his fingertips on his lips and kept silent. He broke eye contact - the sure sign that he knew there was more.

"Why did you leave the room?", the therapist tried again and although she had managed to get him to talk this way many times, he still refused to reply anything.

"Last time, Molly made the assumption that you prefer to approach her from behind because it means you don't have to make eye contact. What do you say to that?", she reworded her question.

_Come on!_

Sherlock shook his head and preferred to look out of the window as he did so often. A bird flew past the pane. She noticed the shadow that had flickered across the coffee table.

"We agree then, I suppose. It has little to do with eye contact, right?", Dr. Evans asked, finally getting his attention with her statement. More than that – she got his interest. Molly seemed to have completely lost the thread. She looked at the psychologist, frowning and looking for help.

"Molly, Sherlock prefers to be behind you because it limits your range of motion. You can't get too close to him that way," she explained."Yes, he has a problem with touching and with the images it brings to light. But he has a much bigger problem with not being able to control and influence your attempts to touch him. He can either engage with them - which seems impossible for him based on his former experiences - or he can avoid them. That's why he's running away. A simple and open No means that he has to rely on you to stick to it. That you act accordingly. And this is not safe enough for him."

Dr. Evans could see all those countless thoughts rushing through the pathologist's head. She had no doubt at all that Molly understood the meaning of her words. She was a smart woman. But the explanation didn't say anything about what she should do and that unsettled her. Still, she nodded.

"Am I right, Sherlock?"

Sherlock hesitated for a moment and glanced at Molly before he nodded eventually.

"Molly, just to make it clear - it does not mean that Sherlock doesn't trust you. I'm sure you enjoy Sherlock's complete confidence. This is about his very own sense of security. This has nothing to do with you", she continued.

Women always tended to believe that everything was their fault. All the time. Self-doubt was the woman’s greatest enemy. It was never wrong to point that out again. Molly nodded as if she understood. Dr. Evans, however, wasn’t so sure if she really did.

“I’d like to show you a way for Sherlock to allow touches more easily”, she continued, noticing a glimmer of hope in both of them as she let her gaze wander from one face to the other.

“Okay”, Molly said, her body immediately tense in anticipation.

“Good. For that, we have to repeat the experiment from last time – slightly modified of course. Is that okay with you, Sherlock?”, Dr. Evans asked to give him another opportunitiy to put in a veto. She knew from those many sessions how serious he was about making a change. He’d pull himself together. He didn’t do things by halves.

He nodded. Then, just like last time, she threw some pillows on the floor and dimmed the light.

"I want you to sit across from each other this time," she said. Her heartbeat quickened due to her own nervousness. She mustn't mess this up. It would take her a long time to get them back to that point. This experience had to be positive, it was always the first experience that counted and that set the course.

Dr. Evans thought for a moment about how she was going to position Molly. Her preference would have been to let her sit astride Sherlock but that would have subordinated him and restricted his range of motion. But it would have been easier measured by their postures and closeness. Still, she decided against it. The risk was just too high.

"Sherlock, sit down there," she then said, placing him on a pillow by the couch. "Molly, and you here, please. Not cross-legged. I want your legs touch each other. "

Yeah, that was better. Now, they were on par and equally restricted. Dr. Evans also sat down beside them to observe both mimics. Sherlock as well as Molly seemed to be quite uncomfortable. Molly giggled nervously when she looked at Sherlock for a moment. He smiled. He liked her nervousness and her giggling. There was a sparkle in his eyes when she did.

Sherlock was a man who didn’t have to express his love. One just had to look him in the eye.

Molly cleared her throat and tried to gather herself.

“Okay, Molly. Touch him. Start where it’s okay.”

***

Sherlock’s heart was beating faster than he thought reasonable but all attempts to get it under control seemed to fail. This shouldn’t end in a disaster like last time. But telling himself that over and over again only increased the pressure, and he had already as much of that as he could take.

Molly reached out to him and smiled softly. Yes, he should focus on her smile. It was nice. And reassuring. Her fingertips touched his left hand. That was okay. He liked to hold her hand. He liked the feeling of her lips on his palm. She was always so tender to him. So gentle. So, Molly.

She slowly went his arm upwards. That was okay, too. They’d done that so many times before. He was ticklish on the undersides, she knew that. Presumably, she deliberately avoided those spots. She wandered higher and higher without letting her gaze follow. She had her eyes fixed on his. They were shining hazelnut brown. He liked the color of her iris.

Then she stroked over his shoulder. Attentively. Carefully. And down his chest. He swallowed. He felt his muscles getting tense and was incapable of doing anything about it. He couldn’t relax. He couldn’t allow this to happen. He didn’t want to continue. All these memories...

Mollys movements got slower when she noticed his reaction but she didn’t stop.

_Staples. In his chest. Not the small ones. Of course not. That was too easy. Not cruel enough. Not painful enough. They had to use the big ones, naturally. Those that were holding onto his flesh as if they were desperate little demons with an independent existence. Hard to remove. Painful to remove. Much more painful than forcing them in._

He closed his eyes. It was too much. Way too much.

“Sherlock, what are you feeling?”, the voice of Dr. Evans reached his ear. He tried very hard to control his breathing. To not clench his fist. He forced himself to open his eyes again and stared on the floor.

“The pain. The sting...”, he almost whispered but was interrupted immediately.

“No, Sherlock. What are you feeling?”

Hasn’t he just answered that question? He winced when Molly put her palm on his chest without moving any further. All she did was letting her thumb wander over his skin - no, his shirt. He looked down to where her fingers touched him.

“I feel her... warmth. Through the fabric. Her hand”, he corrected himself quietly. His heart was beating like mad, his palms getting sweaty.

“What’s it doing?”

Molly drove her hand over his entire chest. Was it his pulse he felt or was it hers?

“It’s moving”, he replied. “Downwards.”

“Exactly, Sherlock. No more and no less”, the psychologist said softly. He could do it, right? He could really do it. This time he would not run away. He would struggle through, somehow.

He took a deep breath and shutting his eyes tightly when Molly reached the wound Mary had caused when she had shot at him. Adrenaline was rushing through his veins. The shock. The pain. The fear. The fear of dying, to be precise. She’d been so close. So close to kill him.

“Molly, don’t lose him. That’s your task”, he heard Dr. Evans say. Not important. Not addressed to him. He tried to pull away but failed. Something in his back prevented him to do so.

_Mary with a gun in her hand. Mary with a bullet in her torso. Her face. Her big eyes. All the blood._

“Sherlock, look at me”, Molly said loudly, almost screaming.

What?

No. No, he couldn’t. He wanted to escape. To get away from her. It didn't work. It just didn't work. He was too weak.

He felt a hand in the back of his neck. Something touched his forehead. Something warm. And soothing.

“Sherlock, you are here. Open your eyes”, Molly said again.

Molly. His Molly.

Breathing heavily, he opened his eyelids. Her face, so close. Her eyes, still hazelnut-brown.

“You are here, Sherlock. With me. Everything’s alright”, she assured him. Once again he took a look down his body. Her hand was still laying there. On the bullet wound.

“Mary”, he whispered. Her free hand stroked over his cheek. She looked so terribly sad.

“The bullet wound?”

He nooded. “You saved my life back then, Molly.”

“M-me? But I wasn’t there, Sherlock”, she replied in confusion. She was so unaware, she knew too less. Just like John.

“You were there. You always are, Molly. You asked the right questions”, he explained. “If the mirror behind me broke, for instance. It didn’t. So I knew that the bullet must still be inside me. You asked me which way to fall.”

“On your back”, she said.

“Right. You saved me, Molly. But why? Why did Mary die because of her injury, and I didn’t? Why am I allowed to live?”

Sherlock felt his eyes water. The burning of his tears. He was panting as if he was chasing the smuggler he completely forget the name of in his current state. He threatened to hyperventilate, his synapses close to blowing.

“Don’t go into this emotion with him, Molly, but keep talking. Bring him back”, Dr. Evans said. Back to where? He was right here, wasn’t he? Where was he supposed to be? He had lost track and didn't understand at all.

Her fingers. They started moving again. To the left.

“Do you actually know that I like your shirts?”, she asked, causing nothing but confusion. Shirts? Why was she talking about such trivial things like clothing?

“That’s my favorite, I think. Purple suits you. I like the way it stretches over your chest. Look at those folds”., she added and when he let his eyes follow her movements, he realized that she wasn’t touching him anymore but that she ran her fingers over one of countless folds. Then she followed the trace of his buttons further down like a kid that was jumping from one stone to the next.

“Are they tailor-made? Your shirts?”

Why was she asking him questions like these? They were completely irrelevant, weren’t they?

“Of course”, he replied tersely. Then he looked her in the eye again. She was smiling. Smiling was better than being sad. A smiling Molly was prettier than a crying one. Her lips brushed his. Slightly, softly. So delicate that he hardly felt the touch. Her hands were cupping his face.

Her hands. Both of them.

She had left the no-go area. He could finally breath deeply again. He could finally allow his pulse to slow down. He was save now, wasn’t he?

He did it. It looked as if he actually did it. He was still sitting here. In Dr. Evans office. With Molly. On the same yellow pillow under his arse. Surrounded by the horrible scent of lemongrass. And with the sofa in his back, as he now realized.

He let his gaze wander to the door. The door he had not rushed through to get away from the situation, the memories, the emotions. He took a deep breath and felt his shoulders relax immediately. That’s what Dr. Evans was getting at For a change, it hadn’t been about his inner life this time but about what he could actually feel with his skin. He hadn’t had to fear flashbacks as long as he was concentrating entirely on Molly and on what she was doing. As a matter of fact. He was still far away from enjoying her touches but they had somehow found a key for a very hard lock to open. It was at least something they could work with.

The wall in his head started shaking. He could hear and see the cracks in the bricks.

And then he started laughing.


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry to all of you but I just had to do it again XD

“What do you know about Andrew Scott, Mycroft? And don’t pretend you don’t know who I’m talking about”, Sherlock said surprisingly upset. The evening hasn't in the least lived up to Molly's expectations. They had planned to go out for dinner – alone. Just the two of them. As if they were on a real date. For Sherlock, it would not only have been a step towards a normal relationship but also an admission to the public that he was dating someone.

He hadn’t missed an opportunity to tell Molly what was in for her in the future. That it meant the end of her privacy. That the press would be waiting on her doorstep, trying to get some answers to utterly annoying questions. Sherlock had asked her at least a dozen times if she really knew what she was getting herself into. And God, yes, of course she was totally aware of it. Sherlock was in no way normal and she was willing to engage in everything that came along with a liaison with the great detective. She didn’t feel like playing hide-and-seek. Not even if it could be dangerous for her.

Unfortunately, the dinner never happened. As soon as they had entered the restaurant, Sherlock got a phone call. Molly didn’t even know what it was about. He had just grabbed her by the hand and jumped into the next cab. They hadn't spoken a single word during the ride. Sherlock had been so focused and lost in his thoughts that he hadn't even noticed when Molly spoke to him.

“Andrew Scott is none of your business, Sherlock. I highly recommend to stay out of this”, Mycroft said abrasively and with a piercing look on his face but his brother wasn't impressed at all.

"We've played that game hundreds of times. You know that it'll only have the opposite effect," Sherlock countered, making no bones about it. Molly sat on the dark sofa in Mycroft's even darker and almost stifling house, feeling absolutely out of place. Mycroft - even in his own private walls - was wearing a shirt with a buttoned vest on top and neatly ironed trousers. With a crease right in the middle.

It was obviously some kind of genetic defect to keep up appearances so desperately. Nothing was left to chance in the Holmes' family. How could one be so uptight as these two?

"This matter is of great secrecy, brother mine", Mycroft said with a smug undertone and a disparaging look in Molly's direction. She wasn't welcome here. Neither was Sherlock. But Molly fully shared this displeasure. Mycroft's arrogance was three times greater than Sherlock's but even worse than that was the air of importance that came along with that little man who was only significant because he was hiding behind a significant rank in the government.

Molly's blood was up, it really was! Even more so after she'd learned what had happened in Serbia. How he had been dealing with Sherlock in a moment of weakness.

"She has my complete confidence," Sherlock said.

"Yes, yours. But not the confidence of the British government."

_Asshole._

Was he afraid of women or was he also acting the same way when John was around?

"At least, she doesn't write a blog...", Sherlock replied plainly, his posture leaving no doubt that he wouldn't leave until he had the information he needed. Was Molly actually supposed to feel flattered because Sherlock had taken her to his brother?

Mycroft gritted his teeth, then poured himself a drink without even asking if Molly or Sherlock would like to have one too.

“You know exactly how to find him. You know where he is. Why don’t you stop him?”, Sherlock asked. Molly didn’t know what all the fuss was about but she understood very well that Sherlock was angry at being hampered in his work. His efforts had been in vain or at least partly unnecessary.

“It’s not that simple. Mr. Scott has worked for us in the past. He was the best man we could find. I can’t possibly put my little brother on him!”

“When exactly did you start giving a damn about what is right and what is not?”, it burst out of Molly. That bloody cockalorum! Besides, she was hungry and wanted to get out of here.

Mycroft gave her a contemptuous look, holding his nose up in the air to signal that he would not rise to her provocation. Sherlock’s side glance, however, was far more effective and silenced her. Apparently, she was only meant to play the silent lady with her hands folded in her lap.

“Oh, I can’t wait for Christmas to come. Ms. Hooper will brighten holidays considerably. And imagine our mother’s face when she hears that her youngest son is willingly putting himself under his mistress' bushel like all the other ordinary men out there.”

Okay, that’s enough! Molly tried to jump to her feet but Sherlock was quicker and grabbed her wrist. How could he remain so calm? His big brother's remark was insulting in so many ways that her patience snapped!

But Sherlock was absolutely right. That way, they would never get the information they needed. No, the one he needed. It was his case, not theirs.

“May I remind you that lives are at stake, Mycroft? I can work undercover, if it makes you feel better but Scott has already recognized me, I'm afraid. He was able to injure my shoulder badly enough that I needed stitching. Therefore, your argument missed its mark.”

Molly turned her head in Sherlock’s direction. She had noticed the wound. The scar had been fresh, that’s all she had been able to tell. He had not said a word about it. Neither had she.

Mycroft looked at his brother for a long time. The ticking of the big, old-fashioned clock to Molly’s right seemed to her like a loud drumbeat. Couldn’t he just talk? Why had everything have to be so dramatic and important? Her stomach growled audibly but the Holmes brothers did not stop their silent duel of eyes.

Then Mycroft finally sighed, saying, “I’ll tell you what I know but only on two conditions: you will not send Scott to his doom, you will only thwart his next coup. And little Ms. Hooper here will stay on the sofa while we go into my office.”

***

"Molly!", Sherlock called as he arrived at Baker Street, panting and exhausted. His shirt was blood soaked somewhere below his armpit. His whole body was aching. From the strain and the beating he had taken. John limped over the threshold behind him. He didn't look any better. His temple was encrusted with blood and all his energy seemed to have left him. But the effort had been worth it. They had made it. At last.

"Molly!", Sherlock called once more, holding onto the banister. The door to Mrs. Hudson's apartment opened as the large front door slammed shut. Molly's jaw dropped at the sight of them and she immediately gave little Rosie into the caring hands of the landlady. Rosie wasn't happy to be put aside like this and started crying. Mrs. Hudson mumbled something into her non-existent beard but Sherlock didn't understand. And he didn't care either. He just wanted to get upstairs and onto his couch.

"What the hell happened to you two?", Molly asked with a worried look, following them as they were trudging up the stairs, groaning.

"Well, things didn't entirely go to plan," Sherlock said, knowing very well that he wasn't explaining anything at all. He didn't feel like talking. Not now.

He simply let his coat slide to the floor as he stepped over the threshold and into his apartment.

"Good grief!", Molly gasped. The bloodstains on his white shirt had been covered by his coat but were now impossible to miss. The next shirt he'd ruined. And it wasn't even an old one. Five months at most. Annoying.

Sherlock let himself fall onto the sofa, suppressing a yelp as he landed on the cushions. A piercing pain shot through the region of his ribs. A moment later, he heard John landing in his chair with a groan. The beads of sweat on his forehead were telling him that his friend wasn't t well. He had taken at least as much as he had.

"You two need a doctor!" Molly said, her eyes widened in shock. Helplessly, she looked from one to the other.

"Well spotted, Molly. Luckily, there are two around already", Sherlock replied totally emotionless. Molly's jaw dropped once again.

"I'm a pathologist! I work with corpses!", she protested. "You can't be serious! You need to go to hospital!"

"Not because of a few bruises and a laceration," John interjected wearily. His face was contorted in pain as he tried to roll up his blood-soaked jeans. The wound underneath really didn't look nice.

"That looks like more than a laceration and a few bruises!"

"Molly, you're welcome to keep philosophizing about what is and isn't appropriate right now but I'd prefer if you stopped our bleeding before we sully my entire flat", Sherlock said with clear impatience in his voice.

"There should still be a box in the bathroom full of my old doctor's stuff. Bandages, painkillers, things like that" John added, wiping the sweat off his forehead with the back of his hand. Molly blinked several times but finally got herself to move.

A few moments later, the box was standing on the coffee table along with two bowls of water and two clean cloths next to it.

"Put one of the bowls over here for me, please. And some bandages", John said. "I'll take care of myself. Look after Sherlock, will you?"

Molly did as she was told while Sherlock was trying to get out of his shirt. He felt every movement tug and tear at the new injury, causing another stream of blood running down his skin. He smelled the scent of iron. And gradually felt sick. Not good.

_Take a deep breath..._

He turned a little more on his side, placing his arm on the backrest so that Molly had easier access. Sherlock knew he'd gotten off cheaply. The cut of the knife hadn't gone too deep. His ribs had saved him from further damage. If he had failed to dodge the attack, he would be dead now. Organs were delicate. Organs were well supplied with blood. Yeah, he had been lucky. Again.

Molly took the bowl and wet the cloth. Insecurely, she looked him in the eye and hesitated. No-go area. Sherlock nodded to assure her it was okay. There were more important things to worry about right now than his mental well-being.

"You sure?", she asked quietly, and Sherlock could hardly prevent himself from rolling his eyes. Could she please put aside her emotionalism for once? In that situation? He was bleeding and the pain was getting really uncomfortable. He wanted to get this over with and then suffer in bed in silence.

"I want you to do this, Molly. You. No one else," Sherlock whispered, hoping she would finally get to work. A moment later, the warm cloth finally touched his bare skin. He closed his eyes.

"No, Sherlock," she admonished him and he opened his lids again. Reluctantly. But she was right. It was probably for the better.

“I think it needs to be stitched”, she said. Her hands were as tender and careful as always. A strand of hair had come lose and fell into her face.

His Molly...

She rummaged around in the box and found everything she needed to close the wound, including narcotics. “That’s expired. For almost a year”, she said after carefully examining the bottle.

“He can do without”, John intervened, glancing at Sherlock. He was binding up his leg and smiled mischievously. Molly was puzzled and raised her brows. Sherlock laughed quietly. If only she knew...

“How many stitches?”, he then asked.

“Not many. Two or three. ”

„He’s right. I can do without“, Sherlock said, looking Molly firmly in the eyes. Her facial expression was priceless!

„Get it over with”, he urged. This had already taken too long.

Molly cleared her throat, then put on some gloves, disinfected the wound, and prepared needle and stitch.

“Why didn’t Lestrade call an ambulance?”, she asked as she inserted the needle into his sensitive flesh. Sherlock gasped for air through gritted teeth.

“I didn’t call the police. You heard Mycroft”, he explained, trying to focus on her face to keep the memories away that threatened to bubble up in his head again. Maybe the pain even helped him to do so. Irrelevant. He was safe. Here with Molly and John at Baker Street.

She repeated her work, pulling the stitch through the wound. Sherlock moaned.

"Have you at least been successful?", she asked, and Sherlock couldn't get rid of the feeling that she was talking to him on purpose. To not lose him, as Dr. Evans had so nicely put.

"We thwarted his plan, yes. And we let him go as I was told to. Not very satisfying when... Holy Mary! Are you done now?", he asked as she inserted the needle a third time. She looked at him, concerned and apologetic. And nodded. Then she gave him a kiss on his forehead, cut the stitch and covered the wound with a plaster.

Sherlock sighed in relief. The worst was over. Only the painkiller was still awaiting him which would hopefully put him into a blissful semiconsciousness. All he needed was a good rest and after that the world would certainly look better again.

Molly left both of them alone for a moment and then returned with a fresh shirt and his dressing gown.

"John, let me at least have a look at your laceration," she said afterwards. Apparently, she had come to terms with her role as a doctor. Or a nurse.

To Sherlock's displeasure, she turned her attention to John and walked over to him, cleaning his wound as well and covering it with a patch like John had done with Sherlock a few weeks ago. When she was done, she put all the utensils back into the box and handed both of them a glass of water and a pill.

"John, you're going to stay here tonight. I'll take care of Rosie. And then bring you something for dinner.“

Sherlock involuntarily smiled at Molly's ponytail that was turned to him as she said those words. She was so caring and sweet and reliable. As she always was.

Something in his chest suddenly felt so warm.

She was of the stuff good wives were made of.

  
  



	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's going to be rather short but I think it's kind of sweet and it completes the story nicely. :D
> 
> Thank you so much for all your feedback, your kudos and for reading in general! It really made me happy! <3

Face down, Sherlock was laying naked on the sheets of his bed, his arms folded under his head and his eyes closed. His chest was lifting and lowering regularly under his breaths. As it turned out, orgasms were causing exactly the relaxation on his face Molly wished to see more often. Her gaze went over his back and to the wound she had stitched about two weeks ago. She gently ran a finger over it. Considering that sewing someone back together was not a part of her daily duties – quite the opposite, really - she was satisfied with the result. The scar would probably be barely visible - unlike the others. Molly was no longer put off by them. They simply belonged to the man she loved, silently telling their sad story. But it was okay. They were at least a testimony of what he had been able to stand. What he had luckily survived.

Every time she looked at Sherlock's maltreated skin, however, her anger at Myroft returned. He could have saved him so much suffering. For once, he could have protected his little brother when he really needed it. In her opinion, he hadn't just failed, he'd done him harm which she probably would never be able to forgive, even though Sherlock seemed to let bygones be bygones.

Mycroft's remark about her connection to Sherlock had not only been arrogant but downright tactless. She hadn't dared to ask whether she would ever meet Mommy and Daddy Holmes for real after that terrible conversation. She didn't want to destroy the slow but sure beginning of their relationship by being too pushy. She was glad that they had both found a way to be more intimate and familiar with each other. For now, it was the only thing that really mattered.

"How is John, by the way?", she eventually asked. Molly had been looking after him and Rosie for two more days but then he had insisted on leaving Baker Street again. She hadn't seen him since. He was certainly able to struggle through with the laceration on his temple but the wound of his leg had been really bad.

"I should be offended that you ask about him right after we had sex," Sherlock said and Molly immediately bit her lower lip. Though he didn't sound offended at all, she scolded herself inwardly. She tended to drop just too many bricks...

"He was a soldier, Molly. I think he's been through worse," he added after a moment's silence, not being worried at all. Was that reassuring? Sherlock would never leave his friend hanging when he needed him, would he? She nodded silently, although he couldn't see it.

Molly moved up to Sherlock and let her fingers slide over his back. What he liked even more than a head massage was the tickle of her fingertips on his shoulder blade. Molly watched his skin tighten under her touch. And the gentle smile on his lips. Something like this had been inconceivable a few weeks ago. But today - today it was okay. The demons were locked away. Only once in a while - very rarely - did they come to surface again but since Molly knew what to do, she no longer felt powerless and insecure. And neither did Sherlock.

Molly changed her position and was now kneeling over him. She replaced her fingertips with her lips, and covered his scars with gentle kisses. He smelled so wonderfully of Sherlock. Especially in the curve of his neck. Molly couldn't help but inhale his scent - she was addicted to it.

Sherlock kept silent, allowing her to continue the journey over his body. His skin was still slightly sweaty from the intimacy they had just shared. An intimacy that gradually became a positive and uncomplicated naturalness.

"It seems like you can't get enough," he hummed softly underneath her.

"From you? Never. I've been in love with you for a decade, I have something to catch up on," Molly replied cheekily and smiled. She wandered further south, stroking his lower back and running her fingers over his bottom. Sherlock opened his eyes and blinked briefly. His gluteus maximus tensed, making his butt even firmer than it already was. Molly wasn't deterred by it. She had no intention of breaking his taboo and discovering an even more intimate part of his body. And he knew that.

He relaxed again as her lips trailed over the back of his thigh. His legs were slightly spread, revealing a part of what had made her moan in pure pleasure only minutes ago. Sherlock's ability of deduction came in extremely useful in bed. He knew exactly what Molly needed most. And how she needed it.

She loved when he took her from behind. When he was pushing into her - wild and passionate and out of his mind. When he almost used her. Sherlock managed to do something to her that no man before him ever had: making Molly completely forget the world around her. She lost control every single time, induldging in her lust.

Afterwards, she sometimes felt ashamed of what they had done but she didn't want to miss any of it ever again. What they shared was a gift she treasured like no other.

"I like your butt," she whispered, resting her head on the back of his knee. The sight in front of her eyes was somehow lewd and at the same time so natural. Like those Greek statues that were only poorly covered. She let her hand trail upward again, waiting for his reaction, his tension, which was much weaker this time. Then she let a finger slide slowly down to his testicles. Sherlock winced and started laughing. Then he turned around.

"I must protest in the strongest possible terms," he said, stuffing a pillow under his head. Molly's gaze fell onto his crotch. Despite his orgasm, his member was half hard again which made her smile involuntarily. She got on top of him, feeling his body on hers and his heartbeat against her chest.

She buried her nose in the curve of his neck and once again took a deep breath. Then she kissed him lovingly on his soft lips and ran her thumb over his cheekbones. His arms were enclosing her body. He held her tight as his tongue was seeking hers and he closed his eyes. He was gentler than the first time and much less... hungry... as his hands found slowly their way down to her bottom.

"Your butt is even more tempting. It's scientifically proven," he murmured, pressing her hips against his. Molly giggled but then felt his hardness between her thighs. She moved her hips in need of some friction and sighed. Not only would she not lose him, she would keep him. And feel him on and inside her.

Molly looked deep into Sherlock's eyes as he was slowly sliding into her for the second time that evening. She was blissfully happy. And so was he.


End file.
